The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth,
Vol. II., by William Wordsworth

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Title: The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Vol. II.

Author: William Wordsworth

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Dame Tyson's Cottage

Wordsworth's



Poetical Works





volume 2




edited by

William Knight



1896






Table of Contents






Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1798



Edited by William Knight

1896



Table of Contents






Peter Bell: a TaleA

Composed 1798B—Published 1819.

The Poem
What's in a Name?C

Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Cæsar!D




To Robert Southey, Esq., P.L., Etc., Etc.

My Dear Friend—The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its Manuscript state, nearly survived its minority:—for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favourable reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the Literature of our Country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavours in Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached; and that the attainment of excellence in it, may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses.

The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledgment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural; and I am persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as a Master in that province of the art, the following Tale, whether from contrast or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony of affectionate admiration from one with whose name yours has been often coupled (to use your own words) for evil and for good; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health may be granted you to complete the many important works in which you are engaged, and with high respect, Most faithfully yours,

William Wordsworth.

Rydal Mount, April 7, 1819.




[Written at Alfoxden. Founded upon an anecdote which I read in a newspaper, of an ass being found hanging his head over a canal in a wretched posture. Upon examination a dead body was found in the water, and proved to be the body of its master. The countenance, gait, and figure of Peter were taken from a wild rover with whom I walked from Builth, on the river Wye, downwards, nearly as far as the town of Hay. He told me strange stories. It has always been a pleasure to me through life, to catch at every opportunity that has occurred in my rambles of becoming acquainted with this class of people. The number of Peter's wives was taken from the trespasses, in this way, of a lawless creature, who lived in the county of Durham, and used to be attended by many women, sometimes not less than half a dozen, as disorderly as himself, and a story went in the country that he had been heard to say, while they were quarrelling, "Why can't ye be quiet, there's none so many of you?" Benoni, or the child of sorrow, I knew when I was a schoolboy. His mother had been deserted by a gentleman in the neighbourhood, she herself being a gentlewoman by birth. The circumstances of her story were told me by my dear old dame, Ann Tyson, who was her confidante. The lady died broken-hearted. In the woods of Alfoxden I used to take great delight in noticing the habits, tricks, and physiognomy of asses; and I have no doubt that I was thus put upon writing the poem out of liking for the creature that is often so dreadfully abused. The crescent moon, which makes such a figure in the prologue, assumed this character one evening while I was watching its beauty in front of Alfoxden House. I intended this poem for the volume before spoken of, but it was not published for more than twenty years afterwards. The worship of the Methodists, or Ranters, is often heard during the stillness of the summer evening, in the country, with affecting accompaniments of rural beauty. In both the psalmody and voice of the preacher there is, not unfrequently, much solemnity likely to impress the feelings of the rudest characters under favourable circumstances.—I. F.]




Classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."—ED.




The Poem



Prologue

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There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon;
But through the clouds I'll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Shaped like the crescent-moon.

And now I have a little Boat,
In shape a very crescent-moon:
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up—and you shall see me soon!

The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
Rocking and roaring like a sea;
The noise of danger's in your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little Boat and me!

Meanwhile untroubled I admire
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distrest,
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!

Away we go, my Boat and I—
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds we dive,
Each is contented with the other.

Away we go—and what care we
For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our delight
As is the crescent-moon so bright
Among the scattered stars.

Up goes my Boat among the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
Up goes my little Boat so bright!

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull—
We pry among them all; have shot
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
Covered from top to toe with scars;
Such company I like it not!

The towns in Saturn are decayed,
And melancholy Spectres throng them;—
The Pleiads, that appear to kiss
Each other in the vast abyss,
With joy I sail among them,

Swift Mercury resounds with mirth,
Great Jove is full of stately bowers;
But these, and all that they contain,
What are they to that tiny grain,
That little Earth of ours?

Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth:—
Whole ages if I here should roam,
The world for my remarks and me
Would not a whit the better be;
I've left my heart at home.

See! there she is, the matchless Earth!
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean!
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear
Through the grey clouds; the Alps are here,
Like waters in commotion!

Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands
That silver thread the river Dnieper;
And look, where clothed in brightest green
Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen;
Ye fairies, from all evil keep her!

And see the town where I was born!
Around those happy fields we span
In boyish gambols;—I was lost
Where I have been, but on this coast
I feel I am a man.

Never did fifty things at once
Appear so lovely, never, never;—
How tunefully the forests ring!
To hear the earth's soft murmuring
Thus could I hang for ever!

"Shame on you!" cried my little Boat,
"Was ever such a homesick Loon,
Within a living Boat to sit,
And make no better use of it;
A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon!

"Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet
Fluttered so faint a heart before;—
Was it the music of the spheres
That overpowered your mortal ears?
—Such din shall trouble them no more.

"These nether precincts do not lack
Charms of their own;—then come with me;
I want a comrade, and for you
There's nothing that I would not do;
Nought is there that you shall not see.

"Haste! and above Siberian snows
We'll sport amid the boreal morning;
Will mingle with her lustres gliding
Among the stars, the stars now hiding,
And now the stars adorning.

"I know the secrets of a land
Where human foot did never stray;
Fair is that land as evening skies,
And cool, though in the depth it lies
Of burning Africa.

"Or we'll into the realm of Faery,
Among the lovely shades of things;
The shadowy forms of mountains bare,
And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair,
The shades of palaces and kings!

"Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal
Less quiet regions to explore,
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal
How earth and heaven are taught to feel
The might of magic lore!"

"My little vagrant Form of light,
My gay and beautiful Canoe,
Well have you played your friendly part;
As kindly take what from my heart
Experience forces—then adieu!

"Temptation lurks among your words;
But, while these pleasures you're pursuing
Without impediment or let,
No wonder if you quite forget
What on the earth is doing.

"There was a time when all mankind
Did listen with a faith sincere
To tuneful tongues in mystery versed;
Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed
The wonders of a wild career.

"Go—(but the world's a sleepy world,
And 'tis, I fear, an age too late)
Take with you some ambitious Youth!
For, restless Wanderer! I, in truth,
Am all unfit to be your mate.

"Long have I loved what I behold,
The night that calms, the day that cheers;
The common growth of mother-earth
Suffices me—her tears, her mirth,
Her humblest mirth and tears.

"The dragon's wing, the magic ring,
I shall not covet for my dower,
If I along that lowly way
With sympathetic heart may stray,
And with a soul of power.

"These given, what more need I desire
To stir, to soothe, or elevate?
What nobler marvels than the mind
May in life's daily prospect find,
May find or there create?

"A potent wand doth Sorrow wield;
What spell so strong as guilty Fear!
Repentance is a tender Sprite;
If aught on earth have heavenly might,
'Tis lodged within her silent tear.

"But grant my wishes,—let us now
Descend from this ethereal height;
Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff,
More daring far than Hippogriff,
And be thy own delight!

"To the stone-table in my garden,
Loved haunt of many a summer hour,
The Squire is come: his daughter Bess
Beside him in the cool recess
Sits blooming like a flower.

"With these are many more convened;
They know not I have been so far;—
I see them there, in number nine,
Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine!
I see them—there they are!

"There sits the Vicar and his Dame;
And there my good friend, Stephen Otter;
And, ere the light of evening fail,
To them I must relate the Tale
Of Peter Bell the Potter."

Off flew the Boat—away she flees,
Spurning her freight with indignation!
"And I, as well as I was able,
On two poor legs, toward my stone-table
Limped on with sore vexation.

"O, here he is!" cried little Bess—
She saw me at the garden-door;
"We've waited anxiously and long,"
They cried, and all around me throng,
Full nine of them or more!

"Reproach me not—your fears be still—
Be thankful we again have met;—
Resume, my Friends! within the shade
Your seats, and quickly shall be paid
The well-remembered debt."

I spake with faltering voice, like one
Not wholly rescued from the pale
Of a wild dream, or worse illusion;
But, straight, to cover my confusion,
Began the promised Tale.

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Part the First

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All by the moonlight river side
Groaned the poor Beast—alas! in vain;
The staff was raised to loftier height,
And the blows fell with heavier weight
As Peter struck—and struck again.

"Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the rules
Of common sense you're surely sinning;
This leap is for us all too bold;
Who Peter was, let that be told,
And start from the beginning."

—"A Potter, Sir, he was by trade,"
Said I, becoming quite collected;
"And wheresoever he appeared,
Full twenty times was Peter feared
For once that Peter was respected.

"He two-and-thirty years or more,
Had been a wild and woodland rover;
Had heard the Atlantic surges roar
On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore,
And trod the cliffs of Dover.

"And he had seen Caernarvon's towers,
And well he knew the spire of Sarum;
And he had been where Lincoln bell
Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell—
A far-renowned alarum.

"At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds,
And merry Carlisle had he been;
And all along the Lowlands fair,
All through the bonny shire of Ayr;
And far as Aberdeen.

"And he had been at Inverness;
And Peter, by the mountain-rills,
Had danced his round with Highland lasses;
And he had lain beside his asses
On lofty Cheviot Hills:

"And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales,
Among the rocks and winding scars;
Where deep and low the hamlets lie
Beneath their little patch of sky
And little lot of stars:

"And all along the indented coast,
Bespattered with the salt-sea foam;
Where'er a knot of houses lay
On headland, or in hollow bay;—
Sure never man like him did roam!

"As well might Peter, in the Fleet,
Have been fast bound, a begging debtor;—
He travelled here, he travelled there;—
But not the value of a hair
Was heart or head the better.

"He roved among the vales and streams,
In the green wood and hollow dell;
They were his dwellings night and day,—
But nature ne'er could find the way
Into the heart of Peter Bell.

"In vain, through every changeful year,
Did Nature lead him as before;
A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.

"Small change it made in Peter's heart
To see his gentle panniered train
With more than vernal pleasure feeding,
Where'er the tender grass was leading
Its earliest green along the lane.

"In vain, through water, earth, and air,
The soul of happy sound was spread,
When Peter on some April morn,
Beneath the broom or budding thorn,
Made the warm earth his lazy bed.

"At noon, when, by the forest's edge
He lay beneath the branches high,
The soft blue sky did never melt
Into his heart; he never felt
The witchery of the soft blue sky!

"On a fair prospect some have looked
And felt, as I have heard them say,
As if the moving time had been
A thing as steadfast as the scene
On which they gazed themselves away.

"Within the breast of Peter Bell
These silent raptures found no place;
He was a Carl as wild and rude
As ever hue-and-cry pursued,
As ever ran a felon's race.

"Of all that lead a lawless life,
Of all that love their lawless lives,
In city or in village small,
He was the wildest far of all;—
He had a dozen wedded wives.

"Nay, start not!—wedded wives—and twelve!
But how one wife could e'er come near him,
In simple truth I cannot tell;
For, be it said of Peter Bell,
To see him was to fear him.

"Though Nature could not touch his heart
By lovely forms, and silent weather,
And tender sounds, yet you might see
At once, that Peter Bell and she
Had often been together.

"A savage wildness round him hung
As of a dweller out of doors;
In his whole figure and his mien
A savage character was seen
Of mountains and of dreary moors.

"To all the unshaped half-human thoughts
Which solitary Nature feeds
'Mid summer storms or winter's ice,
Had Peter joined whatever vice
The cruel city breeds.

"His face was keen as is the wind
That cuts along the hawthorn-fence;
Of courage you saw little there,
But, in its stead, a medley air
Of cunning and of impudence.

"He had a dark and sidelong walk,
And long and slouching was his gait;
Beneath his looks so bare and bold,
You might perceive, his spirit cold
Was playing with some inward bait.

"His forehead wrinkled was and furred;
A work, one half of which was done
By thinking of his 'whens,' and 'hows';
And half, by knitting of his brows
Beneath the glaring sun.

"There was a hardness in his cheek,
There was a hardness in his eye,
As if the man had fixed his face,
In many a solitary place,
Against the wind and open sky!"

————

One night, (and now my little Bess!
We've reached at last the promised Tale;)
One beautiful November night,
When the full moon was shining bright
Upon the rapid river Swale,

Along the river's winding banks
Peter was travelling all alone;
Whether to buy or sell, or led
By pleasure running in his head,
To me was never known.

He trudged along through copse and brake,
He trudged along o'er hill and dale;
Nor for the moon cared he a tittle,
And for the stars he cared as little,
And for the murmuring river Swale.

But, chancing to espy a path
That promised to cut short the way;
As many a wiser man hath done,
He left a trusty guide for one
That might his steps betray.

To a thick wood he soon is brought
Where cheerily his course he weaves,
And whistling loud may yet be heard,
Though often buried, like a bird
Darkling, among the boughs and leaves.

But quickly Peter's mood is changed,
And on he drives with cheeks that burn
In downright fury and in wrath;—
There's little sign the treacherous path
Will to the road return!

The path grows dim, and dimmer still;
Now up, now down, the Rover wends,
With all the sail that he can carry,
Till brought to a deserted quarry—
And there the pathway ends.

He paused—for shadows of strange shape,
Massy and black, before him lay;
But through the dark, and through the cold,
And through the yawning fissures old,
Did Peter boldly press his way

Right through the quarry;—and behold
A scene of soft and lovely hue!
Where blue and grey, and tender green,
Together make as sweet a scene
As ever human eye did view.

Beneath the clear blue sky he saw
A little field of meadow ground;
But field or meadow name it not;
Call it of earth a small green plot,
With rocks encompassed round.

The Swale flowed under the grey rocks,
But he flowed quiet and unseen;—
You need a strong and stormy gale
To bring the noises of the Swale
To that green spot, so calm and green!

And is there no one dwelling here,
No hermit with his beads and glass?
And does no little cottage look
Upon this soft and fertile nook?
Does no one live near this green grass?

Across the deep and quiet spot
Is Peter driving through the grass—
And now has reached the skirting trees;
When, turning round his head, he sees
A solitary Ass.

"A prize!" cries Peter—but he first
Must spy about him far and near:
There's not a single house in sight,
No woodman's hut, no cottage light—
Peter, you need not fear!

There's nothing to be seen but woods,
And rocks that spread a hoary gleam,
And this one Beast, that from the bed
Of the green meadow hangs his head
Over the silent stream.

His head is with a halter bound;
The halter seizing, Peter leapt
Upon the Creature's back, and plied
With ready heels his shaggy side;
But still the Ass his station kept.

Then Peter gave a sudden jerk,
A jerk that from a dungeon-floor
Would have pulled up an iron ring;
But still the heavy-headed Thing
Stood just as he had stood before!

Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat,
"There is some plot against me laid";
Once more the little meadow-ground
And all the hoary cliffs around
He cautiously surveyed.

All, all is silent—rocks and woods,
All still and silent—far and near!
Only the Ass, with motion dull,
Upon the pivot of his skull
Turns round his long left ear.

Thought Peter, What can mean all this?
Some ugly witchcraft must be here!
—Once more the Ass, with motion dull,
Upon the pivot of his skull
Turned round his long left ear.

Suspicion ripened into dread;
Yet with deliberate action slow,
His staff high-raising, in the pride
Of skill, upon the sounding hide,
He dealt a sturdy blow.

The poor Ass staggered with the shock;
And then, as if to take his ease,
In quiet uncomplaining mood,
Upon the spot where he had stood,
Dropped gently down upon his knees;

As gently on his side he fell;
And by the river's brink did lie;
And, while he lay like one that mourned,
The patient Beast on Peter turned
His shining hazel eye.

'Twas but one mild, reproachful look,
A look more tender than severe;
And straight in sorrow, not in dread,
He turned the eye-ball in his head
Towards the smooth river deep and clear.

Upon the Beast the sapling rings;
His lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred;
He gave a groan, and then another,
Of that which went before the brother,
And then he gave a third.

All by the moonlight river side
He gave three miserable groans;
And not till now hath Peter seen
How gaunt the Creature is,—how lean
And sharp his staring bones!

With legs stretched out and stiff he lay:—
No word of kind commiseration
Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue;
With hard contempt his heart was wrung,
With hatred and vexation.

The meagre beast lay still as death;
And Peter's lips with fury quiver;
Quoth he, "You little mulish dog,
I'll fling your carcass like a log
Head-foremost down the river!"

An impious oath confirmed the threat—
Whereat from the earth on which he lay
To all the echoes, south and north,
And east and west, the Ass sent forth
A long and clamorous bray!

This outcry, on the heart of Peter,
Seems like a note of joy to strike,—
Joy at the heart of Peter knocks;
But in the echo of the rocks
Was something Peter did not like.

Whether to cheer his coward breast,
Or that he could not break the chain,
In this serene and solemn hour,
Twined round him by demoniac power,
To the blind work he turned again.

Among the rocks and winding crags;
Among the mountains far away;
Once more the Ass did lengthen out
More ruefully a deep-drawn shout,
The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray!

What is there now in Peter's heart!
Or whence the might of this strange sound?
The moon uneasy looked and dimmer,
The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer,
And the rocks staggered all around—

From Peter's hand the sapling dropped!
Threat has he none to execute;
"If any one should come and see
That I am here, they'll think," quoth he,
"I'm helping this poor dying brute."

He scans the Ass from limb to limb,
And ventures now to uplift his eyes;
More steady looks the moon, and clear,
More like themselves the rocks appear
And touch more quiet skies.

His scorn returns—his hate revives;
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize
With malice—that again takes flight;
For in the pool a startling sight
Meets him, among the inverted trees.

Is it the moon's distorted face?
The ghost-like image of a cloud?
Is it a gallows there portrayed?
Is Peter of himself afraid?
Is it a coffin,—or a shroud?

A grisly idol hewn in stone?
Or imp from witch's lap let fall?
Perhaps a ring of shining fairies?
Such as pursue their feared vagaries
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall?

Is it a fiend that to a stake
Of fire his desperate self is tethering?
Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell
In solitary ward or cell,
Ten thousand miles from all his brethren?

Never did pulse so quickly throb,
And never heart so loudly panted;
He looks, he cannot choose but look;
Like some one reading in a book—
A book that is enchanted.

Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell!
He will be turned to iron soon,
Meet Statue for the court of Fear!
His hat is up—and every hair
Bristles, and whitens in the moon!

He looks, he ponders, looks again;
He sees a motion—hears a groan;
His eyes will burst—his heart will break—
He gives a loud and frightful shriek,
And back he falls, as if his life were flown!




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Part Second

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We left our Hero in a trance,
Beneath the alders, near the river;
The Ass is by the river-side,
And, where the feeble breezes glide,
Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver.

A happy respite! but at length
He feels the glimmering of the moon;
Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing—
To sink, perhaps, where he is lying,
Into a second swoon!

He lifts his head, he sees his staff;
He touches—'tis to him a treasure!
Faint recollection seems to tell
That he is yet where mortals dwell—
A thought received with languid pleasure!

His head upon his elbow propped,
Becoming less and less perplexed,
Sky-ward he looks—to rock and wood—
And then—upon the glassy flood
His wandering eye is fixed.

Thought he, that is the face of one
In his last sleep securely bound!
So toward the stream his head he bent,
And downward thrust his staff, intent
The river's depth to sound.

Now—like a tempest-shattered bark,
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies,
And in a moment to the verge
Is lifted of a foaming surge—
Full suddenly the Ass doth rise!

His staring bones all shake with joy,
And close by Peter's side he stands:
While Peter o'er the river bends,
The little Ass his neck extends,
And fondly licks his hands.

Such life is in the Ass's eyes,
Such life is in his limbs and ears;
That Peter Bell, if he had been
The veriest coward ever seen,
Must now have thrown aside his fears.

The Ass looks on—and to his work
Is Peter quietly resigned;
He touches here—he touches there—
And now among the dead man's hair
His sapling Peter has entwined.

He pulls—and looks—and pulls again;
And he whom the poor Ass had lost,
The man who had been four days dead,
Head-foremost from the river's bed
Uprises like a ghost!

And Peter draws him to dry land;
And through the brain of Peter pass
Some poignant twitches, fast and faster;
"No doubt," quoth he, "he is the Master
Of this poor miserable Ass!"

The meagre shadow that looks on—
What would he now? what is he doing?
His sudden fit of joy is flown,—
He on his knees hath laid him down,
As if he were his grief renewing;

But no—that Peter on his back
Must mount, he shows well as he can:
Thought Peter then, come weal or woe
I'll do what he would have me do,
In pity to this poor drowned man.

With that resolve he boldly mounts
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass;
And then, without a moment's stay,
That earnest Creature turned away,
Leaving the body on the grass.

Intent upon his faithful watch,
The Beast four days and nights had past;
A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen,
And there the Ass four days had been,
Nor ever once did break his fast:

Yet firm his step, and stout his heart;
The mead is crossed—the quarry's mouth
Is reached; but there the trusty guide
Into a thicket turns aside,
And deftly ambles towards the south.

When hark a burst of doleful sound!
And Peter honestly might say,
The like came never to his ears,
Though he has been, full thirty years,
A rover—night and day!

'Tis not a plover of the moors,
'Tis not a bittern of the fen;
Nor can it be a barking fox,
Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks,
Nor wild-cat in a woody glen!

The Ass is startled—and stops short
Right in the middle of the thicket;
And Peter, wont to whistle loud
Whether alone or in a crowd,
Is silent as a silent cricket.

What ails you now, my little Bess?
Well may you tremble and look grave!
This cry—that rings along the wood,
This cry—that floats adown the flood,
Comes from the entrance of a cave:

I see a blooming Wood-boy there,
And if I had the power to say
How sorrowful the wanderer is,
Your heart would be as sad as his
Till you had kissed his tears away!

Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand,
All bright with berries ripe and red,
Into the cavern's mouth he peeps;
Thence back into the moonlight creeps;
Whom seeks he—whom?—the silent dead:

His father!—Him doth he require—
Him hath he sought with fruitless pains,
Among the rocks, behind the trees;
Now creeping on his hands and knees,
Now running o'er the open plains.

And hither is he come at last,
When he through such a day has gone,
By this dark cave to be distrest
Like a poor bird—her plundered nest
Hovering around with dolorous moan!

Of that intense and piercing cry
The listening Ass conjectures well;
Wild as it is, he there can read
Some intermingled notes that plead
With touches irresistible.

But Peter—when he saw the Ass
Not only stop but turn, and change
The cherished tenor of his pace
That lamentable cry to chase—
It wrought in him conviction strange;

A faith that, for the dead man's sake
And this poor slave who loved him well,
Vengeance upon his head will fall,
Some visitation worse than all
Which ever till this night befel.

Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home,
Is striving stoutly as he may;
But, while he climbs the woody hill,
The cry grows weak—and weaker still;
And now at last it dies away.

So with his freight the Creature turns
Into a gloomy grove of beech,
Along the shade with footsteps true
Descending slowly, till the two
The open moonlight reach.

And there, along the narrow dell,
A fair smooth pathway you discern,
A length of green and open road—
As if it from a fountain flowed—
Winding away between the fern.

The rocks that tower on either side
Build up a wild fantastic scene;
Temples like those among the Hindoos,
And mosques, and spires, and abbey-windows,
And castles all with ivy green!

And, while the Ass pursues his way,
Along this solitary dell,
As pensively his steps advance,
The mosques and spires change countenance,
And look at Peter Bell!

That unintelligible cry
Hath left him high in preparation,—
Convinced that he, or soon or late,
This very night will meet his fate—
And so he sits in expectation!

The strenuous Animal hath clomb
With the green path; and now he wends
Where, shining like the smoothest sea,
In undisturbed immensity
A level plain extends.

But whence this faintly-rustling sound
By which the journeying pair are chased?
—A withered leaf is close behind,
Light plaything for the sportive wind
Upon that solitary waste.

When Peter spied the moving thing,
It only doubled his distress;
"Where there is not a bush or tree,
The very leaves they follow me—
So huge hath been my wickedness!"

To a close lane they now are come,
Where, as before, the enduring Ass
Moves on without a moment's stop,
Nor once turns round his head to crop
A bramble-leaf or blade of grass.

Between the hedges as they go,
The white dust sleeps upon the lane;
And Peter, ever and anon
Back-looking, sees, upon a stone,
Or in the dust, a crimson stain.

A stain—as of a drop of blood
By moonlight made more faint and wan;
Ha! why these sinkings of despair?
He knows not how the blood comes there—
And Peter is a wicked man.

At length he spies a bleeding wound,
Where he had struck the Ass's head;
He sees the blood, knows what it is,—
A glimpse of sudden joy was his,
But then it quickly fled;

Of him whom sudden death had seized
He thought,—of thee, O faithful Ass!
And once again those ghastly pains,
Shoot to and fro through heart and reins,
And through his brain like lightning pass.










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Part Third

text variant footnote line number
I've heard of one, a gentle Soul,
Though given to sadness and to gloom,
And for the fact will vouch,—one night
It chanced that by a taper's light
This man was reading in his room;

Bending, as you or I might bend
At night o'er any pious book,
When sudden blackness overspread
The snow-white page on which he read,
And made the good man round him look.

The chamber walls were dark all round,—
And to his book he turned again;
—The light had left the lonely taper,
And formed itself upon the paper
Into large letters—bright and plain!

The godly book was in his hand—
And, on the page, more black than coal,
Appeared, set forth in strange array,
A word—which to his dying day
Perplexed the good man's gentle soul.

The ghostly word, thus plainly seen,
Did never from his lips depart;
But he hath said, poor gentle wight!
It brought full many a sin to light
Out of the bottom of his heart.

Dread Spirits! to confound the meek
Why wander from your course so far,
Disordering colour, form, and stature!
—Let good men feel the soul of nature,
And see things as they are.

Yet, potent Spirits! well I know,
How ye, that play with soul and sense,
Are not unused to trouble friends
Of goodness, for most gracious ends—
And this I speak in reverence!

But might I give advice to you,
Whom in my fear I love so well;
From men of pensive virtue go,
Dread Beings! and your empire show
On hearts like that of Peter Bell.

Your presence often have I felt
In darkness and the stormy night;
And, with like force, if need there be,
Ye can put forth your agency
When earth is calm, and heaven is bright.

Then, coming from the wayward world,
That powerful world in which ye dwell,
Come, Spirits of the Mind! and try,
To-night, beneath the moonlight sky,
What may be done with Peter Bell!

—O, would that some more skilful voice
My further labour might prevent!
Kind Listeners, that around me sit,
I feel that I am all unfit
For such high argument.

I've played, I've danced, with my narration;
I loitered long ere I began:
Ye waited then on my good pleasure;
Pour out indulgence still, in measure
As liberal as ye can!

Our Travellers, ye remember well,
Are thridding a sequestered lane;
And Peter many tricks is trying,
And many anodynes applying,
To ease his conscience of its pain.

By this his heart is lighter far;
And, finding that he can account
So snugly for that crimson stain,
His evil spirit up again
Does like an empty bucket mount.

And Peter is a deep logician
Who hath no lack of wit mercurial;
"Blood drops—leaves rustle—yet," quoth he,
"This poor man never, but for me,
Could have had Christian burial.

"And, say the best you can, 'tis plain,
That here has been some wicked dealing;
No doubt the devil in me wrought;
I'm not the man who could have thought
An Ass like this was worth the stealing!"

So from his pocket Peter takes
His shining horn tobacco-box;
And, in a light and careless way,
As men who with their purpose play,
Upon the lid he knocks.

Let them whose voice can stop the clouds,
Whose cunning eye can see the wind,
Tell to a curious world the cause
Why, making here a sudden pause,
The Ass turned round his head, and grinned.

Appalling process! I have marked
The like on heath, in lonely wood;
And, verily, have seldom met
A spectacle more hideous—yet
It suited Peter's present mood.

And, grinning in his turn, his teeth
He in jocose defiance showed—
When, to upset his spiteful mirth,
A murmur, pent within the earth,
In the dead earth beneath the road,

Rolled audibly! it swept along,
A muffled noise—a rumbling sound!—
'Twas by a troop of miners made,
Plying with gunpowder their trade,
Some twenty fathoms underground.

Small cause of dire effect! for, surely,
If ever mortal, King or Cotter,
Believed that earth was charged to quake
And yawn for his unworthy sake,
'Twas Peter Bell the Potter.

But, as an oak in breathless air
Will stand though to the centre hewn;
Or as the weakest things, if frost
Have stiffened them, maintain their post;
So he, beneath the gazing moon!—

The Beast bestriding thus, he reached
A spot where, in a sheltering cove,
A little chapel stands alone,
With greenest ivy overgrown,
And tufted with an ivy grove;

Dying insensibly away
From human thoughts and purposes,
It seemed—wall, window, roof and tower—
To bow to some transforming power,
And blend with the surrounding trees.

As ruinous a place it was,
Thought Peter, in the shire of Fife
That served my turn, when following still
From land to land a reckless will
I married my sixth wife!

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on,
And now is passing by an inn
Brim-full of a carousing crew,
That make, with curses not a few,
An uproar and a drunken din.

I cannot well express the thoughts
Which Peter in those noises found;—
A stifling power compressed his frame,
While-as a swimming darkness came
Over that dull and dreary sound.

For well did Peter know the sound;
The language of those drunken joys
To him, a jovial soul, I ween,
But a few hours ago, had been
A gladsome and a welcome noise.

Now, turned adrift into the past,
He finds no solace in his course;
Like planet-stricken men of yore,
He trembles, smitten to the core
By strong compunction and remorse.

But, more than all, his heart is stung
To think of one, almost a child;
A sweet and playful Highland girl,
As light and beauteous as a squirrel,
As beauteous and as wild!

Her dwelling was a lonely house,
A cottage in a heathy dell;
And she put on her gown of green,
And left her mother at sixteen,
And followed Peter Bell.

But many good and pious thoughts
Had she; and, in the kirk to pray,
Two long Scotch miles, through rain or snow,
To kirk she had been used to go,
Twice every Sabbath-day.

And, when she followed Peter Bell,
It was to lead an honest life;
For he, with tongue not used to falter,
Had pledged his troth before the altar
To love her as his wedded wife.

A mother's hope is hers;—but soon
She drooped and pined like one forlorn;
From Scripture she a name did borrow;
Benoni, or the child of sorrow,
She called her babe unborn.

For she had learned how Peter lived,
And took it in most grievous part;
She to the very bone was worn,
And, ere that little child was born,
Died of a broken heart.

And now the Spirits of the Mind
Are busy with poor Peter Bell;
Upon the rights of visual sense
Usurping, with a prevalence
More terrible than magic spell.

Close by a brake of flowering furze
(Above it shivering aspens play)
He sees an unsubstantial creature,
His very self in form and feature,
Not four yards from the broad highway:

And stretched beneath the furze he sees
The Highland girl—it is no other;
And hears her crying as she cried,
The very moment that she died,
"My mother! oh my mother!"

The sweat pours down from Peter's face,
So grievous is his heart's contrition;
With agony his eye-balls ache
While he beholds by the furze-brake
This miserable vision!

Calm is the well-deserving brute,
His peace hath no offence betrayed;
But now, while down that slope he wends,
A voice to Peter's ear ascends,
Resounding from the woody glade:

The voice, though clamorous as a horn
Re-echoed by a naked rock,
Comes from that tabernacle—List!
Within, a fervent Methodist
Is preaching to no heedless flock!

"Repent! repent!" he cries aloud,
"While yet ye may find mercy;—strive
To love the Lord with all your might;
Turn to him, seek him day and night,
And save your souls alive!

"Repent! repent! though ye have gone,
Through paths of wickedness and woe,
After the Babylonian harlot;
And, though your sins be red as scarlet,
They shall be white as snow!"

Even as he passed the door, these words
Did plainly come to Peter's ears;
And they such joyful tidings were,
The joy was more than he could bear!—
He melted into tears.

Sweet tears of hope and tenderness!
And fast they fell, a plenteous shower!
His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt;
Through all his iron frame was felt
A gentle, a relaxing, power!

Each fibre of his frame was weak;
Weak all the animal within;
But, in its helplessness, grew mild
And gentle as an infant child,
An infant that has known no sin.

'Tis said, meek Beast! that, through Heaven's grace,
He not unmoved did notice now
The cross upon thy shoulder scored,
For lasting impress, by the Lord
To whom all human-kind shall bow;

Memorial of his touch—that day
When Jesus humbly deigned to ride,
Entering the proud Jerusalem,
By an immeasurable stream
Of shouting people deified!

Meanwhile the persevering Ass,
Turned towards a gate that hung in view
Across a shady lane; his chest
Against the yielding gate he pressed
And quietly passed through.

And up the stony lane he goes;
No ghost more softly ever trod;
Among the stones and pebbles, he
Sets down his hoofs inaudibly,
As if with felt his hoofs were shod.

Along the lane the trusty Ass
Went twice two hundred yards or more,
And no one could have guessed his aim,—
Till to a lonely house he came,
And stopped beside the door.

Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home!
He listens—not a sound is heard
Save from the trickling household rill;
But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill,
Forthwith a little Girl appeared.

She to the Meeting-house was bound
In hopes some tidings there to gather:
No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam;
She saw—and uttered with a scream,
"My father! here's my father!"

The very word was plainly heard,
Heard plainly by the wretched Mother—
Her joy was like a deep affright:
And forth she rushed into the light,
And saw it was another!

And, instantly, upon the earth,
Beneath the full moon shining bright,
Close to the Ass's feet she fell;
At the same moment Peter Bell
Dismounts in most unhappy plight.

As he beheld the Woman lie
Breathless and motionless, the mind
Of Peter sadly was confused;
But, though to such demands unused,
And helpless almost as the blind,

He raised her up; and, while he held
Her body propped against his knee,
The Woman waked—and when she spied
The poor Ass standing by her side,
She moaned most bitterly.

"Oh! God be praised—my heart's at ease—
For he is dead—I know it well!"
—At this she wept a bitter flood;
And, in the best way that he could,
His tale did Peter tell.

He trembles—he is pale as death;
His voice is weak with perturbation;
He turns aside his head, he pauses;
Poor Peter from a thousand causes,
Is crippled sore in his narration.

At length she learned how he espied
The Ass in that small meadow-ground;
And that her Husband now lay dead,
Beside that luckless river's bed
In which he had been drowned.

A piercing look the Widow cast
Upon the Beast that near her stands;
She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same;
She calls the poor Ass by his name,
And wrings, and wrings her hands.

"O wretched loss—untimely stroke!
If he had died upon his bed!
He knew not one forewarning pain;
He never will come home again—
Is dead, for ever dead!"

Beside the Woman Peter stands;
His heart is opening more and more;
A holy sense pervades his mind;
He feels what he for human-kind
Had never felt before.

At length, by Peter's arm sustained,
The Woman rises from the ground—
"Oh, mercy! something must be done,
My little Rachel, you must run,—
Some willing neighbour must be found.

"Make haste—my little Rachel—do,
The first you meet with—bid him come,
Ask him to lend his horse to-night,
And this good Man, whom Heaven requite,
Will help to bring the body home."

Away goes Rachel weeping loud;—
An Infant, waked by her distress,
Makes in the house a piteous cry;
And Peter hears the Mother sigh,
"Seven are they, and all fatherless!"

And now is Peter taught to feel
That man's heart is a holy thing;
And Nature, through a world of death,
Breathes into him a second breath,
More searching than the breath of spring.

Upon a stone the Woman sits
In agony of silent grief—
From his own thoughts did Peter start;
He longs to press her to his heart,
From love that cannot find relief.

But roused, as if through every limb
Had past a sudden shock of dread,
The Mother o'er the threshold flies,
And up the cottage stairs she hies,
And on the pillow lays her burning head.

And Peter turns his steps aside
Into a shade of darksome trees,
Where he sits down, he knows not how,
With his hands pressed against his brow,
His elbows on his tremulous knees.

There, self-involved, does Peter sit
Until no sign of life he makes,
As if his mind were sinking deep
Through years that have been long asleep!
The trance is passed away—he wakes;

He lifts his head—and sees the Ass
Yet standing in the clear moonshine;
"When shall I be as good as thou?
Oh! would, poor beast, that I had now
A heart but half as good as thine!"

But He—who deviously hath sought
His Father through the lonesome woods,
Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear
Of night his grief and sorrowful fear—
He comes, escaped from fields and floods;—

With weary pace is drawing nigh;
He sees the Ass—and nothing living
Had ever such a fit of joy
As hath this little orphan Boy,
For he has no misgiving!

Forth to the gentle Ass he springs,
And up about his neck he climbs;
In loving words he talks to him,
He kisses, kisses face and limb,—
He kisses him a thousand times!

This Peter sees, while in the shade
He stood beside the cottage-door;
And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild,
Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child,
"Oh! God, I can endure no more!"

—Here ends my Tale: for in a trice
Arrived a neighbour with his horse;
Peter went forth with him straightway;
And, with due care, ere break of day,
Together they brought back the Corse.

And many years did this poor Ass,
Whom once it was my luck to see
Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane,
Help by his labour to maintain
The Widow and her family.

And Peter Bell, who, till that night,
Had been the wildest of his clan,
Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly,
And, after ten months' melancholy,
Became a good and honest man.



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Variant 1:  
1827
And something
1819
return


Variant 2:  
1849
Whose shape is like
1819
For shape just like
1845
return


Variant 3:  
1845
The noise of danger fills
1819
return


Variant 4:  
1827
Meanwhile I from the helm admire
1819
... I soberly admire
C.
return


Variant 5:  
1827
Or deep into the heavens
1819
Or into massy clouds
1820
return


Variant 6:  
1820
... between ...
1819
return


Variant 7:  
1827
... are ill-built,
But proud let him be who has seen them;

1819
return


Variant 8:  
1827
... between ...
1819
return


Variant 9:  
1827
That darling speck ...
1819
return


Variant 10:  
1836
And there it is, ...
1819
return


Variant 11:  
1827
... heartless ...
1819
return


Variant 12:  
In the editions of 1819 and 1820 only.
Out—out—and, like a brooding hen,
Beside your sooty hearth-stone cower;
Go, creep along the dirt, and pick
Your way with your good walking-stick,
Just three good miles an hour!
return


Variant 13:  
1827
... the land ...
1819
return


Variant 14:  
1845
My radiant Pinnace, you forget
1819
return


Variant 15:  
1827
For I myself, in very truth,
1819
return


Variant 16:  
1845
Off flew my sparkling Boat in scorn,
Yea in a trance of indignation!

1819
Spurning her freight with indignation!
1820
return


Variant 17:  
1845
... to my stone-table
Limp'd on with some vexation.

1819
... tow'rd my stone-table
1827
return


Variant 18:  
1827
... promptly ...
1819
return


Variant 19:  
1827
Breath fail'd me as I spake—but soon
With lips, no doubt, and visage pale,
And sore too from a slight contusion,
Did I, to cover my confusion,
Begin the promised Tale.




1819
return


Variant 20:  
1820
All by the moonlight river side
It gave three miserable groans;
"'Tis come then to a pretty pass,"
Said Peter to the groaning Ass,
"But I will bang your bones!"




1819
return


Variant 21:  
In the two editions of 1819 only.
"Good Sir!"—the Vicar's voice exclaim'd,
"You rush at once into the middle;"
And little Bess, with accent sweeter,
Cried, "O dear Sir! but who is Peter?"
Said Stephen,—"'Tis a downright riddle!"
return


Variant 22:  
1836
The Squire said, "Sure as paradise
Was lost to man by Adam's sinning,
This leap is for us all too bold;


1819
Like winds that lash the waves, or smite
The woods, the autumnal foliage thinning—
"Hold!" said the Squire, "I pray you, hold!


1820
The woods, autumnal foliage thinning—
1827
return


Variant 23:  
1845
... its ponderous knell,
Its far-renowned alarum!

1819
... his ponderous knell,
A far-renowned alarum!

1836
... that ponderous knell—
His far-renowned alarum!

1840
return


Variant 24:  
1820
With Peter Bell, I need not tell
That this had never been the case;—

1819
return


Variant 25:  
1819
... placid ...
1820
The text of 1827 returns to that of 1819.
return


Variant 26:  
1836
... cheerfully ...
1819
return


Variant 27:  
1827
Till he is brought to an old quarry,
1819
return


Variant 28:  
In the two editions of 1819 only.
"What! would'st thou daunt me grisly den?
Back must I, having come so far?
Stretch as thou wilt thy gloomy jaws,
I'll on, nor would I give two straws
For lantern or for star!"
return


Variant 29:  
1820
And so, where on the huge rough stones
The black and massy shadows lay,
And through the dark, ...


1819
return


Variant 30:  
1827
... made ...
1819
return


Variant 31:  
In the two editions of 1819 only.
Now you'll suppose that Peter Bell
Felt small temptation here to tarry,
And so it was,—but I must add,
His heart was not a little glad
When he was out of the old quarry.
return


Variant 32:  
1827
Across that ...
1819
return


Variant 33:  
1836
And now he is among the trees;
1819
return


Variant 34:  
"No doubt I'm founder'd in these woods—
For once," quoth he, "I will be wise,
With better speed I'll back again—
And, lest the journey should prove vain,
Will take yon Ass, my lawful prize!"

Off Peter hied,—"A comely beast!
Though not so plump as he might be;
My honest friend, with such a platter,
You should have been a little fatter,
But come, Sir, come with me!"










1819
(The first of these stanzas was omitted in 1827 and afterwards; the second was withdrawn in 1820.)
return


Variant 35:  
1836
But first doth Peter deem it fit
To spy about him far and near;

1819
"A prize," cried Peter, stepping back
To spy ...

1827
return


Variant 36:  
1827
... Ass's back, ...
1819
return


Variant 37:  
1836
With ready heel the creature's side;
1819
With ready heel his shaggy side;
1827
return


Variant 38:  
In the editions of 1819 to 1832 only.
"What's this!" cried Peter, brandishing
A new-peel'd sapling white as cream;
The Ass knew well what Peter said,
But, as before, hung down his head
Over the silent stream.




1819
A new-peeled sapling;—though, I deem,
The Ass knew well what Peter said,
He, as before, ...


1920
... —though I deem,
This threat was understood full well,
Firm, as before, the Sentinel
Stood by the silent stream.



1827
return


Variant 39:  
1827
"I'll cure you of these desperate tricks"—
And, with deliberate action slow,
His staff high-raising, in the pride
Of skill, upon the Ass's hide



C. and 1819.
return


Variant 40:  
1836
What followed?—yielding to the shock
The Ass, as if ...

1819
return


Variant 41:  
1836
And then upon ...
1819
return


Variant 42:  
1840
... as ...
1819
return


Variant 43:  
1819
The Beast on his tormentor turned
A shining hazel eye.

1827
His shining ...
1832
The edition of 1836 returns to the text of 1819.
return


Variant 44:  
1836
Towards the river ...
1819
return


Variant 45:  
1832
Heav'd his lank sides, ...
1819
return


Variant 46:  
1836. In the two editions of 1819 this stanza formed two stanzas, thus:
All by the moonlight river side
He gave three miserable groans,
"'Tis come then to a pretty pass,"
Said Peter to the groaning ass,
"But I will bang your bones!"

And Peter halts to gather breath,
And now full clearly was it shown
(What he before in part had seen)
How gaunt was the poor Ass and lean,
Yea wasted to a skeleton!










1819
In the editions of 1820-1832, only the second of these stanzas is retained, with the following change of text in 1827:
And, while he halts, was clearly shown
(What he before in part had seen)
How gaunt the Creature was, and lean,


1827
In the final text of 1836 the two stanzas of 1819 are compressed into one (ll. 446-50).
return


Variant 47:  
1836
But, while upon the ground he lay,
1819
That instant, while outstretched he lay,
1827
return


Variant 48:  
1836
A loud and piteous bray!
1819
return


Variant 49:  
1820
Joy on ...
1819
return


Variant 50:  
1836
... an endless shout,
The long dry see-saw ...

1819
return


Variant 51:  
1836
And Peter now uplifts his eyes;
Steady the moon doth look and clear,
And like themselves the rocks appear,
And tranquil are the skies,



1819
And quiet are the skies.
1820
return


Variant 52:  
1836
Whereat, in resolute mood, once more
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize—
Foul purpose, quickly put to flight!
For in the pool a startling sight
Meets him, beneath the shadowy trees.




1819
return


Variant 53:  
1819
... the gallows ...
1832
The text of 1836 returns to that of 1819.
return


Variant 54:  
1836
Or a gay ring of shining fairies,
Such as pursue their brisk vagaries

1819
return


Variant 55:  
In the two editions of 1819 only.
Is it a party in a parlour?
Cramm'd just as they on earth were cramm'd—
Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent and all damn'd!a
return


Variant 56:  
1827
A throbbing pulse the Gazer hath—
Puzzled he was, and now is daunted;

1819
return


Variant 57:  
1836
Like one intent upon a book—
1819
return


Variant 58:  
1836
And drops, a senseless weight,
1819
return


Variant 59:  
1827
A happy respite!—but he wakes;—
And feels the glimmering of the moon—
And to stretch forth his hands is trying;—
Sure, when he knows where he is lying,
He'll sink into a second swoon.




1819
return


Variant 60:  
1827
... placid ...
1819
return


Variant 61:  
1827
So, faltering not in this intent,
He makes his staff an instrument
The river's depth to sound—


1819
So toward the stream his head he bent,
And downward thrust his staff, intent
To reach the Man who there lay drowned.—


1820
return


Variant 62:  
1836
The meagre Shadow all this while—
What aim is his? ...

1819
return


Variant 63:  
1836
That Peter on his back should mount
He shows a wish, well as he can,
"I'll go, I'll go, whate'er betide—
He to his home my way will guide,
The cottage of the drowned man."




1819
But no—his purpose and his wish
The Suppliant shews, well as he can;
Thought Peter whatsoe'er betide
I'll go, and he my way will guide
To the cottage of the drowned man.




1820
return


Variant 64:  
1836
This utter'd, Peter mounts forthwith
1819
This hoping,
1820
Encouraged by this hope, he mounts
1827
This hoping, Peter boldly mounts
1832
return


Variant 65:  
1827
The
1819
return


Variant 66:  
1836
And takes his way ...
1819
return


Variant 67:  
1840
Holding ...
1819
return


Variant 68:  
1840 and C.
What seeks the boy?—the silent dead!
1819
Seeking for whom?— ...
1836
return


Variant 69:  
1836
Whom he hath sought ...
1819
return


Variant 70:  
1820
... doth rightly spell;
1819
return


Variant 71:  
1836
... noise ...
1819
return


Variant 72:  
1820
... to gain his end
1819
return


Variant 73:  
1845
... footstep ...
1819
return


Variant 74:  
1836
... along a ...
1819
return


Variant 75:  
In the editions of 1819 and 1820 the following stanza occurs:
The verdant pathway, in and out,
Winds upwards like a straggling chain;
And, when two toilsome miles are past,
Up through the rocks it leads at last
Into a high and open plain.
return


Variant 76:  
1827
The ...
1819
return


Variant 77:  
1836
How blank!—but whence this rustling sound
Which, all too long, the pair hath chased!
—A dancing leaf is close behind,


1819
But whence that faintly-rustling sound
1820
But whence this faintly rustling sound
By which the pair have long been chased?

C.
return


Variant 78:  
1836
When Peter spies the withered leaf,
It yields no cure to his distress—

1819
return


Variant 79:  
1836
Ha! why this comfortless despair?
1819
return


Variant 80:  
1819
... the Creature's head;
1827
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.
return


Variant 81:  
1836
... those darting pains,
As meteors shoot through heaven's wide plains,
Pass through his bosom—and repass!


1819
return


Variant 82:  
1827
Reading, as you or I might read
At night in any pious book,

1819
return


Variant 83:  
1826
... the good man's taper,
1819
return


Variant 84:  
1836
The ghostly word, which thus was fram'd,
1819
... full plainly seen,
1827
return


Variant 85:  
1836
... to torment the good
1819
return


Variant 86:  
1836
I know you, potent Spirits! well,
How with the feeling and the sense
Playing, ye govern foes or friends.
Yok'd to your will, for fearful ends—



1819
return


Variant 87:  
1836
... I have often ...
1819
return


Variant 88:  
1836
And well I know ...
1819
return


Variant 89:  
1836
... and danc'd ...
1819
return


Variant 90:  
1836
... clearly ...
1819
return


Variant 91:  
1836
... hath ...
1819
return


Variant 92:  
1836
... to confound ...
1819
return


Variant 93:  
1836
But now the pair have reach'd a spot
Where, shelter'd by a rocky cove,

1819
Meanwhile the pair
1820
return


Variant 94:  
1836
The building seems, wall, roof, and tower,
1819
return


Variant 95:  
1836
Deep sighing as he pass'd along,
Quoth Peter, "In the shire of Fife,
'Mid such a ruin, following still
From land to land a lawless will,



1819
return


Variant 96:  
1827
Making, ...
1819
return


Variant 97:  
1836
As if confusing darkness came
1819
And a confusing
1832
While clouds of swimming darkness came
Over his eyesight with the sound.

C.
return


Variant 98:  
Italics were first used in the edition of 1820.
return


Variant 99:  
1836
A lonely house her dwelling was,
1819
return


Variant 100:  
1819
... her name ...
1820
The edition of 1827 returns to the text of 1819.
return


Variant 101:  
1820
Distraction reigns in soul and sense,
And reason drops in impotence
From her deserted pinnacle!


1820
return


Variant 102:  
1820
... ears ...
1819
return


Variant 103:  
1836
Though clamorous as a hunter's horn
Re-echoed from a naked rock,
'Tis from that tabernacle—List!


1819
The voice, though clamorous as a horn
Re-echoed by a naked rock,
Is from ....
1832
return


Variant 104:  
1819
... pious ...
C.
return


Variant 105:  
1836
'Tis said, that through prevailing grace
1819
return


Variant 106:  
1836
... shoulders scored
Meek beast! in memory of the Lord

1819
Faithful memorial of the Lord
C.
return


Variant 107:  
1836
In memory of that solemn day
1819
return


Variant 108:  
1836
Towards a gate in open view
Turns up a narrow lane; ...

1819
return


Variant 109:  
1836
Had gone two hundred yards, not more;
When to a lonely house he came;
He turn'd aside towards the same
And stopp'd before the door.



1819
return


Variant 110:  
1836
In hope ...
1819
return


Variant 111:  
1827
Close at ...
1819
return


Variant 112:  
1832
What could he do?—The Woman lay
1819
return


Variant 113:  
1836
... the sufferer ...
1819
return


Variant 114:  
1819
... stair ...
1820
The edition of 1827 returns to the text of 1819.
return


Variant 115:  
1836
And to the pillow gives ...
1819
return


Variant 116:  
1827
And resting on ...
1819
return


Variant 117:  
1827
He turns ...
1819
return


Variant 118:  
1836
... his inward grief and fear—
1819
... his sorrow and his fear—
C.
return


Variant 119:  
1827
... had ...
1819
return


Variant 120:  
1836
Towards ...
1819
return


Variant 121:  
1832
... repressed ...
1819
return





Footnote A:   The title in the two editions of 1819 was Peter Bell: A Tale in Verse. —Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   In Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal the following occurs, under date April 20, 1798:
"The moon crescent. Peter Bell begun."
Ed.
return


Footnote C:   Romeo and Juliet, act II. scene ii. l. 44. This motto first appeared on the half-title of Peter Bell, second edition, 1819, under the advertisement of Benjamin the Waggoner, its first line being "What's a Name?" When The Waggoner appeared, a few days afterwards, the motto stood on its title-page. In the collective edition of the Poems (1820), it disappeared; but reappeared, in its final position, in the edition of 1827.—Ed.
return


Footnote D:   Julius Cæsar, act I. scene ii. l. 147.—Ed.
return


Footnote E:   Compare The Prelude, book iv. l. 47:
'the sunny seat
Round the stone table under the dark pine.'
Ed.
return


Footnote F:   In the dialect of the North, a hawker of earthen-ware is thus designated.—W. W. 1819 (second edition).
return


Footnote G:   Compare The Prelude, book v. l. 448:
'At last, the dead man, 'mid that beauteous scene
Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright
Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre shape
Of terror.'
Ed.
return


Footnote H:  This and the next stanza were omitted from the edition of 1827, but restored in 1832.—Ed.
return


Footnote I:   The notion is very general, that the Cross on the back and shoulders of this Animal has the origin here alluded to.—W. W. 1819.
return


Footnote J:   I cannot suffer this line to pass, without noticing that it was suggested by Mr. Haydon's noble Picture of Christ's Entry into Jerusalem.—W. W. 1820.

Into the same picture Haydon "introduced Wordsworth bowing in reverence and awe." See the essay on "The Portraits of Wordsworth" in a later volume, and the portrait itself, which will be reproduced in the volume containing the Life of the poet.—Ed.
return


Footnote K:   The first and second editions of Peter Bell (1819) contained, as frontispiece, an engraving by J. C. Bromley, after a picture by Sir George Beaumont. In 1807, Wordsworth wrote to Sir George:
"I am quite delighted to hear of your picture for Peter Bell .... But remember that no poem of mine will ever be popular, and I am afraid that the sale of Peter would not carry the expense of engraving .... The people would love the poem of Peter Bell, but the public (a very different thing) will never love it."
Some days before Wordsworth's Peter Bell was issued in 1819, another 'Peter Bell' was published by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey. It was a parody written by J. Hamilton Reynolds, and issued as 'Peter Bell, a Lyrical Ballad', with the sentence on its title page, "I do affirm that I am the real Simon Pure." The preface, which follows, is too paltry to quote; and the stanzas which make up the poem contain allusions to the more trivial of the early Lyrical Ballads (Betty Foy, Harry Gill, etc.). Wordsworth's Peter Bell was published about a week later; and Shelley afterwards published his Peter Bell the Third. Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth, in May 1819:
"Dear Wordsworth—I received a copy of 'Peter Bell' a week ago, and I hope the author will not be offended if I say I do not much relish it. The humour, if it is meant for humour, is forced; and then the price!—sixpence would have been dear for it. Mind, I do not mean your 'Peter Bell', but a Peter Bell, which preceded it about a week, and is in every bookseller's shop window in London, the type and paper nothing differing from the true one, the preface signed W. W., and the supplementary preface quoting, as the author's words, an extract from the supplementary preface to the 'Lyrical Ballads.' Is there no law against these rascals? I would have this Lambert Simnel whipt at the cart's tail."
(The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by A. Ainger, vol. ii. p. 20.)

Barron Field wrote on the title-page of his copy of the edition of Peter Bell, 1819,
"And his carcase was cast in the way, and the ass stood by it."
1 Kings xiii. 24.—Ed.
return





Sub-Footnote a:  This stanza, which was deleted from every edition of Peter Bell after the two of 1819, was prefixed by Shelley to his poem of Peter Bell the Third, and many of his contemporaries thought that it was an invention of Shelley's. See the note which follows this poem, p. 50. Crabb Robinson wrote in his Diary, June 6, 1812:
"Mrs. Basil Montagu told me she had no doubt she had suggested this image to Wordsworth by relating to him an anecdote. A person, walking in a friend's garden, looking in at a window, saw a company of ladies at a table near the window, with countenances fixed. In an instant he was aware of their condition, and broke the window. He saved them from incipient suffocation."
Wordsworth subsequently said that he had omitted the stanza only in deference to the "unco guid." Crabb Robinson remonstrated with him against its exclusion.—Ed.
return


1798 Contents
Main Contents




LinesA, composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a tour, July 13, 1798B

Composed July 1798.—Published 1798

The Poem

[July 1798. No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my sister. Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes, the Lyrical Ballads, as first published at Bristol by Cottle.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
        These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration:—feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,—
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
        If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
        And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
        Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes, Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence—wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!



Contents



1

2







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4





5


6
























7

























8









9

C

D













E




































































F




















G













H





























B




5




10




15




20




25




30




35




40




45




50




55




60




65




70




75




80




85




90




95




100




105




110




115




120




125




130




135




140




145




150




155




160







Variant 1:  
1845
... sweet ...
1798
return


Variant 2:  
1827
Which ...
1798
return


Variant 3:  
1845
... with their unripe fruits,
Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
The wild green landscape ...



1798
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb

1802
return


Variant 4:  
1827
... Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,

1798
return


Variant 5:  
1798
... inmost mind
MS.
return


Variant 6:  
1820
As may have had no trivial influence
1798
return


Variant 7:  
1798
... wood,
1798 (some copies)
return


Variant 8:  
1836
... or ...
1798
return


Variant 9:  
1800
Not ...
1798
return





Footnote A:   I have not ventured to call this Poem an Ode; but it was written with a hope that in the transitions, and the impassioned music of the versification would be found the principal requisites of that species of composition.—W. W. 1800.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   The title in 1798 was Lines, written a few miles, etc. In 1815 it assumed its final form.—Ed.
return


Footnote C:   Compare the Fenwick note to the poem Guilt and Sorrow (vol. i. p.78) This visit, five years before, was on his way from "Sarum plain," on foot and alone—after parting with his friend William Calvert—to visit another friend, Robert Jones, in Wales.—Ed.
return


Footnote D:   The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.— W. W. 1798.
return


Footnote E:   In the edition of 1798, an additional line is here introduced, but it is deleted in the errata. It is
'And the low copses—coming from the trees.'
Ed.
return


Footnote F:  Compare The Prelude, book xi. l. 108:
'Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very Heaven.'
Ed.
return


Footnote G:   This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect.—W. W. 1798.

It is the line:
'And half-create the wondrous world they see.'
Night Thoughts, (Night vi. l. 427).—Ed.
return


Footnote H:   Compare, in The Recluse, canto "Home at Grasmere," l. 91:
Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang,
The thought of her was like a flash of light,
Or an unseen companionship.
Ed.
return


1798 Contents
Main Contents




There was a Boy

Composed 1798.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written in Germany, 1799. This is an extract from the Poem on my own poetical education. This practice of making an instrument of their own fingers is known to most boys, though some are more skilful at it than others. William Raincock of Rayrigg, a fine spirited lad, took the lead of all my schoolfellows in this art.—I. F.]

This "extract" will be found in the fifth book of The Prelude, ll. 364-397. It was included among the "Poems of the Imagination." In the editions of 1800 to 1832 it had no title, except in the table of contents. In 1836, the finally adopted title of the poem was given in the text, as well as in the table of contents.—Ed.


The Poem


text variant footnote line number
There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander!—many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him.—And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause
Of silence such as baffled his best skill:
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

        This boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs
Upon a slope above the village-school;
And, through that church-yard when my way has led
On summer-evenings, I believe, that there
A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies!



Contents

Note


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5

6


7

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A




5




10




15




20




25





30









Variant 1:  
1815
... when the stars had just begun
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1836
... a wild scene
Of mirth and jocund din! ...

1800
... concourse wild
1805
return


Variant 3:  
1836
... And, when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill,

1800
... and, when a lengthened pause
Of silence came and baffled his best skill,

The Prelude, 1850
return


Variant 4:  
This and the following line were added in 1805.
return


Variant 5:  
1815
... ere he was ten years old.
1805
return


Variant 6:  
1845
Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,
The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs

1800
Fair is the spot, most beautiful the Vale
Where he was born: the grassy Church-yard hangs

1827
The text of 1840 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 7:  
1836
And there along that bank when I have pass'd
At evening, I believe, that near his grave

1800
... I believe, that oftentimes
1805
And through that Church-yard when my way has led
1827
return


Variant 8:  
1815
A full half-hour together I have stood,
Mute—for he died when he was ten years old.

1800
Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies.
1805
return





Footnote A:   In The Prelude the version of 1827 is adopted for the most part.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  See Graduati Cantabrigienses (1850), by Joseph Romily, the Registrar to the University 1832-1862.—Ed.
return





Wordsworth sent this fragment in MS. to Coleridge, who was then living at Ratzeburg, and Coleridge wrote in reply on the 10th Dec. 1798:
"The blank lines gave me as much direct pleasure as was possible in the general bustle of pleasure with which I received and read your letter. I observed, I remember, that the 'fingers woven,' etc., only puzzled me; and though I liked the twelve or fourteen first lines very well, yet I liked the remainder much better. Well, now I have read them again, they are very beautiful, and leave an affecting impression. That
'uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake,'
I should have recognised anywhere; and had I met these lines, running wild in the deserts of Arabia, I should have instantly screamed out 'Wordsworth'!"
The MS. copy of this poem sent to Coleridge probably lacked the explanatory line,
'Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth,'
as another MS., in the possession of the poet's grandson, lacks it; and the line was possibly added—as the late Mr. Dykes Campbell suggested—"in deference to S. T. C.'s expression of puzzlement."

Fletcher Raincock—an elder brother of the William Raincock referred to in the Fenwick note to this poem, as Wordsworth's schoolfellow at Hawkshead—was with him also at Cambridge. He attended Pembroke College, and was second wrangler in 1790B. John Fleming of Rayrigg, his half-brother—the boy with whom Wordsworth used to walk round the lake of Esthwaite, in the morning before school-time, ("five miles of pleasant wandering")—was also at St. John's College, Cambridge, at this time, and had been fifth Wrangler in the preceding year, 1789. He is referred to both in the second and the fifth books of The Prelude (see notes to that poem). It is perhaps not unworthy of note that Wrangham, whose French stanzas on "The Birth of Love" Wordsworth translated into English, was in the same year—1789—third Wrangler, second Smith's prizeman, and first Chancellor's medallist; while Robert Greenwood, "the Minstrel of the Troop," who "blew his flute, alone upon the rock" in Windermere,—also one of the characters referred to in the second book of The Prelude,—was sixteenth Wrangler in Wordsworth's year, viz. 1791. William Raincock was at St. John's College, Cambridge.—Ed.



1798 Contents
Main Contents




The Two Thieves; or, the Last Stage of Avarice

Composed 1798.—Published 1800

The Poem


[This is described from the life, as I was in the habit of observing when a boy at Hawkshead School. Daniel was more than eighty years older than myself when he was daily, thus occupied, under my notice. No books have so early taught me to think of the changes to which human life is subject, and while looking at him I could not but say to myself—we may, one of us, I or the happiest of my playmates, live to become still more the object of pity, than this old man, this half-doating pilferer.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."—Ed.


The Poem


text variant footnote line number
O now that the genius of Bewick were mine,
And the skill which he learned on the banks of the Tyne,
Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose,
For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose.

What feats would I work with my magical hand!
Book-learning and books should be banished the land:
And, for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls,
Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.

The traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair;
Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care!
For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his sheaves,
Oh, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves?

The One, yet unbreeched, is not three birthdays old,
His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told;
There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather
Between them, and both go a-pilfering together.

With chips is the carpenter strewing his floor?
Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's door?
Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide!
And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side.

Old Daniel begins; he stops short—and his eye,
Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly:
'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,
But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.

He once had a heart which was moved by the wires
Of manifold pleasures and many desires:
And what if he cherished his purse? 'Twas no more
Than treading a path trod by thousands before.

'Twas a path trod by thousands; but Daniel is one
Who went something farther than others have gone,
And now with old Daniel you see how it fares;
You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.

The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the sun
Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun:
And yet, into whatever sin they may fall,
This child but half knows it, and that not at all.

They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread,
And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led;
And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,
Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.

Neither checked by the rich nor the needy they roam;
For the grey-headed Sire has a daughter at home,
Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done;
And three, were it asked, would be rendered for one.

Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have eyed,
I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side:
Long yet may'st thou live! for a teacher we see
That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.



Contents



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Variant 1:  
1800
Oh! now that the boxwood and graver were mine,
Of the Poet who lives on the banks of the Tyne,
Who has plied his rude tools with more fortunate toil
Than Reynolds e'er brought to his canvas and oil.



MS. 1798
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Variant 2:  
1800
Then Books, and Book-learning, I'd ring out your knell,
The Vicar should scarce know an A from an L.

MS. 1798.
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Variant 3:  
1820
Little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth-days old,
1800
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Variant 4:  
1837
... a-stealing ...
1800
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Variant 5:  
1827
... of peats ...
1800
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Variant 6:  
1820
Dan once ...
1800
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Variant 7:  
1800
'Twas a smooth pleasant pathway, a gentle descent,
And leisurely down it, and down it, he went.

MS. 1798.
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Variant 8:  
1802
... street ...
1800
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Variant 9:  
1837
... is both leader and led;
1800
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Variant 10:  
1837
For grey-headed Dan ...
1800
The grey-headed Sire ...
1820
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Footnote A:   Thomas Bewick, the wood engraver, born at Cherryburn, near Newcastle-on-Tyne, in 1753, died 1828. He revived the art of wood engraving in England. His illustrations—drawn for the General History of British Quadrupeds (1790), and for his own History of British Birds (1797 and l804)—were unrivalled in their way.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Charles Lamb, writing to Wordsworth in 1815, spoke of
"that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path, which is so fine in the 'Old Thief and the Boy by his side,' which always brings water into my eyes."
(See Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. i. p. 287.)—Ed.
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1798 Contents
Main Contents




Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a Heap lying near a Deserted Quarry, upon one of the IslandsA at Rydal

Composed 1798.—Published 1800

The Poem

Included among the "Inscriptions."—Ed.


The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn
Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome
Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.
The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,
Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of that intended Pile, which would have been
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him not,
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,
Bred in this vale, to which he appertained
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devised
Entire forgiveness!—But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become
An inmate of these mountains,—if, disturbed
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze
In snow-white splendour,—think again; and, taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,
And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.



Contents

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Variant 1:  
1837
Is not a ruin of the ancient time,
1800
... antique ...
MS.
return


Variant 2:  
1802
... which was to have been built
1800
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Variant 3:  
1800
Of some old British warrior: so, to speak
The honest truth, 'tis neither more nor less
Than the rude germ of what was to have been
A pleasure-house, and built upon this isle.



MS.
return


Variant 4:  
1837
... the Knight forthwith
1800
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Variant 5:  
1837
Of the ...
1800
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Variant 6:  
1800
Bred here, and to this valley appertained
MS. 1798.
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Variant 7:  
1800
... glory, ...
1802
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
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Footnote A:   In a MS. copy this is given as "the lesser Island."—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare Wordsworth's
"objections to white, as a colour, in large spots or masses in landscape,"
in his Guide through the district of the Lakes (section third).—Ed.
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1798 Contents
Main Contents






end of Volume II: 1798 1799
Main Contents





Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1799



Edited by William Knight

1896



Table of Contents






1799


The poems belonging to the year 1799 were chiefly, if not wholly, composed at Goslar, in Germany; and all, with three exceptions, appeared in the second edition of Lyrical Ballads (1800). The exceptions were the following: Wordsworth reached Goslar on the 6th of October 1798, and left it on the 10th of February 1799. It is impossible to determine the precise order in which the nineteen or twenty poems associated with that city were composed. But it is certain that the fragment on the immortal boy of Windermere —whom its cliffs and islands knew so well—was written in 1798, and not in 1799 (as Wordsworth himself states); because Coleridge sent a letter to his friend, thanking him for a MS. copy of these lines, and commenting on them, of which the date is "Ratzeburg, Dec. 10, 1798." For obvious reasons, however, I place the fragments originally meant to be parts of The Recluse together; and, since Wordsworth gave the date 1799 to the others, it would be gratuitous to suppose that he erred in reference to them all, because we know that his memory failed him in reference to one of the series. Therefore, although he spent more than twice as many days in 1798 as in 1799 at Goslar, I set down this group of poems as belonging to 1799, rather than to the previous year. It will be seen that, after placing all the poems of this Goslar period in the year to which they belong, it is possible also to group them according to their subject matter, without violating chronological order. I therefore put the fragments, afterwards incorporated in The Prelude, together. These are naturally followed by Nutting—a poem intended for The Prelude, but afterwards excluded, as inappropriate. The five poems referring to "Lucy" are placed in sequence, and the same is done with the four "Matthew" poems. A small group of four poems follows appropriately, viz. To a Sexton, The Danish Boy, Lucy Gray, and Ruth; while the Fenwick note almost necessitates our placing the Poet's Epitaph immediately after the Lines Written in Germany; and, with Wordsworth's life at Goslar, we naturally associate five things—the cold winter, The Prelude, the "Lucy" and the "Matthew" poems, and the Poet's Epitaph.—Ed.


1799 Contents
Main Contents




Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth and strengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and Early Youth

From an Unpublished Poem

[This extract is reprinted from The FriendA.]

Composed 1799.—Published 1809

It was included by Wordsworth among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul;
Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man:
But with high objects, with enduring things,
With life and nature: purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear,—until we recognise
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

        Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days,
When vapours rolling down the valleys made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
Mine was it in the fields both day and night,
And by the waters, all the summer long.
And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed,
I heeded not the summons: happy time
It was indeed for all of us; for me
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud
The village-clock tolled six—I wheeled about,
Proud and exulting like an untired horse
That cares not for his home.—All shod with steel
We hissed along the polished ice, in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn,
The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle: with the din
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars,
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.

        Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the reflex of a star;
Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me—even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.



Contents


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Variant 1:  
1809
That givest ...
The Prelude, 1850.
return


Variant 2:  
1815
Nor ...
1809
return


Variant 3:  
1809
... valley ...
The Prelude, 1850.
return


Variant 4:  
1836
... I homeward went
1809
return


Variant 5:  
1845
'Twas mine among the fields ...
1809
return


Variant 6:  
1809
... blazed through twilight gloom,
The Prelude, 1850.
return


Variant 7:  
1815
... to me
1809
return


Variant 8:  
1827
... car'd not for its home— ...
1809
... cares not ...
1815
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Variant 9:  
1840
... loud bellowing ...
1809
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Variant 10:  
1836
Meanwhile ...
1809
return


Variant 11:  
1845
... while the distant hills
1809
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Variant 12:  
1827
To cut across the image ...
1809
To cross the bright reflection ...
1820
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Variant 13:  
1820
That gleam'd upon the ice; and oftentimes
1809 (This line occupied the place
of lines 51-52 of the final text.)
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,

The Prelude, 1850.
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Variant 14:  
1809
... as a dreamless sleep.
The Prelude, 1850.
return





Footnote A:  The title of the fragment, as it appeared in The Friend, No. 19, (Dec. 28, 1809,) was Growth of Genius from the Influences of Natural Objects on the Imagination, in Boyhood and Early Youth. It first appeared in Wordsworth's Poems in the edition of 1815. It was afterwards included in the first book of The Prelude, l. 401.

The lake referred to with its "silent bays" and "shadowy banks" is that of Esthwaite; the village clock is that of Hawkshead (see the footnotes to The Prelude). The only physical accomplishment in which Wordsworth thought he excelled was skating, an accomplishment in which his brother poet and acquaintance, Klopstock, also excelled.—Ed.

return to footnote mark


1799 Contents
Main Contents




The Simplon PassA

Composed 1799.—Published 1845

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
        —Brook and road
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,
And with them did we journey several hours
At a slow step. The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
And in the narrow rent, at every turn,
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—
Were all like workings of one mind, the features
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.



Contents

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Variant 1:  
1845
... gloomy strait,
The Prelude, 1850
return


Variant 2:  
1845
... pace ...
The Prelude, 1850
return





Footnote A:   This is an extract from the sixth book of The Prelude, l. 621. It refers to Wordsworth's first experience of Switzerland, when he crossed the Alps by the Simplon route, in 1790, in company with his friend Robert Jones.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


1799 Contents
Main Contents




Nutting

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written in Germany; intended as part of a poem on my own life, but struck out as not being wanted there. Like most of my schoolfellows I was an impassioned Nutter. For this pleasure, the Vale of Esthwaite, abounding in coppice wood, furnished a very wide range. These verses arose out of the remembrance of feelings I had often had when a boy, and particularly in the extensive woods that still stretch from the side of Esthwaite Lake towards Graythwaite, the seat of the ancient family of Sandys.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
        —It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die;
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,
A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal Dame—
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks,
Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation; but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,
A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet;—or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;
A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,
And—with my cheek on one of those green stones
That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep—
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
And merciless ravage: and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past;
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.—
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.



Contents


Note


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5
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11


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A




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Variant 1:  
1836
... which ...
1800
return


Variant 2:  
This line was added in the edition of 1827.
return


Variant 3:  
1827
When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1832
And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
1800
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
1815
return


Variant 5:  
1815
... I turn'd ...
1800
return


Variant 6:  
1836
Towards the distant woods, ...
1800
Toward ...
1832
return


Variant 7:  
1815
... of Beggar's weeds
Put on for the occasion, by advice
And exhortation ...


1800
return


Variant 8:  
1836
... Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way
Until, at length, I came ...


1800
return


Variant 9:  
1845
... milk-white clusters ...
1800
return


Variant 10:  
1845
... beneath ...
1800
return


Variant 11:  
1836
Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away,
1800
return


Variant 12:  
1836
... and the intruding sky.—
1800
return





Footnote A:   The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at School.—W. W. 1800.
return to footnote mark





Note:  The woods round Esthwaite Lake have undergone considerable change since Wordsworth's school-days at Hawkshead; but hazel coppice is still abundant to the south and west of the Lake.—Ed.


1799 Contents
Main Contents




Written in Germany, on one of the Coldest Days of the Century

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.—W. W. 1800.

[A bitter winter it was when these verses were composed by the side of my sister, in our lodgings at a draper's house, in the romantic imperial town of Goslar, on the edge of the Hartz Forest. In this town the German emperors of the Franconian Line were accustomed to keep their court, and it retains vestiges of ancient splendour. So severe was the cold of this winter, that when we passed out of the parlour warmed by the stove, our cheeks were struck by the air as by cold iron. I slept in a room over a passage that was not ceiled. The people of the house used to say rather unfeelingly, that they expected I should be frozen to death some night; but with the protection of a pelisse lined with fur, and a dog's skin bonnet, such as was worn by the peasants, I walked daily on the ramparts, or on a sort of public ground or garden, in which was a pond. Here I had no companion but a kingfisher, a beautiful creature that used to glance by me. I consequently became much attached to it. During these walks I composed the poem that follows, A Poet's Epitaph.—I. F.]

return to note after The Poet's Epitaph.

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." Wordsworth originally gave to this poem the title "The Fly," but erased it before publication.—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
A plague on your languages, German and Norse!
Let me have the song of the kettle;
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
That gallops away with such fury and force
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

See that Fly,—a disconsolate creature! perhaps
A child of the field or the grove;
And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ!
He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
Now back to the tiles, then in search of the wall,
And now on the brink of the iron.

Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed:
The best of his skill he has tried;
His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth
To the east and the west, to the south and the north
But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.

His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh!
His eyesight and hearing are lost;
Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
Are glued to his sides by the frost.

No brother, no mate has he near him—while I
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love;
As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom,
As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
And woodbines were hanging above.

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing!
Thy life I would gladly sustain
Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds
Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds.
And back to the forests again!



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1820
A fig for ...
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1800
On his ...
1827
The text of 1837 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 3:  
Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
But her pulses beat slower and slower,
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,
And now it is four degrees lower.
This stanza occurs only in the editions of 1800 to 1815.
return


Variant 4:  
1820
Here's a Fly, ...
1800
return


Variant 5:  
1827
... this ...
1800
return


Variant 6:  
1837
... and not back to the wall,
1800
return


Variant 7:  
1827
... and the South ...
1800
return


Variant 8:  
1845
See! his spindles ...
1800
How his spindles ...
1827
return


Variant 9:  
1827
... no Friend ...
1800
No brother has he, no companion, while I
MS.
return


Variant 10:  
1837
... comes ...
1800
return


1799 Contents
Main Contents




A Poet's Epitaph

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Art thou a Statist in the van
Of public conflicts trained and bred?
—First learn to love one living man;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh!
Go, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face.

Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,
This grave no cushion is for thee.

Or art thou one of gallant pride,
A Soldier and no man of chaff?
Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a peasant's staff.

Physician art thou?—one, all eyes,
Philosopher!—a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave?

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside,—and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
Thy ever-dwindling soul, away!

A Moralist perchance appears;
Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
And he has neither eyes nor ears;
Himself his world, and his own God;

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small;
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual All-in-all!

Shut close the door; press down the latch;
Sleep in thy intellectual crust;
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch
Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He, with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,—
The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand.

—Come hither in thy hour of strength;
Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
Here stretch thy body at full length;
Or build thy house upon this grave.



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... Statesman, ...
1800
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1837
Of public business ...
1800
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Variant 3:  
1820
... to some other place
The hardness of thy coward eye,
The falsehood of thy sallow face.


1800
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Variant 4:  
1820
Art thou a man of gallant pride,
1800
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Variant 5:  
1837
Thy pin-point of a soul away!
1800
That abject thing, thy soul, away!
1815
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Variant 6:  
1837
... nor ...
1800
return


Variant 7:  
1800
... self-sufficient ...
1802
The edition of 1815 returns to the text of 1800.
return





Footnote A:   D. D., not M. D. The physician is referred to in the fifth stanza.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare Thomson's description of the Bard, in his Castle of Indolence (canto ii., stanza xxxiii.):
'He came, the bard, a little Druid wight,
Of withered aspect; but his eye was keen,
With sweetness mixed. In russet brown bedight,
He crept along, etc.'
Ed.
return





Note:   See the Fenwick note to the poem, Written in Germany, on one of the coldest Days of the Century (p. 73).
"The Poet's Epitaph is disfigured to my taste by the common satire upon parsons and lawyers in the beginning, and the coarse epithet of "pin-point," in the sixth stanza. All the rest is eminently good, and your own."
(Charles Lamb to William Wordsworth, January 1801.)—Ed.


1799 Contents
Main Contents




"Strange fits of passion have I known"

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

[Written in Germany, 1799.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In MS. Wordsworth gave, as the title, "A Reverie," but erased it.—Ed.


The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befel.

When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a Lover's head!
"O mercy!" to myself I cried,
"If Lucy should be dead!"



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1832
... I have known,
1800
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Variant 2:  
1836
When she I lov'd, was strong and gay
And like a rose in June,

1800
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Variant 3:  
1836
... the ...
1800
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Variant 4:  
1836
My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh
1800
return


Variant 5:  
1836
Towards the roof of Lucy's cot
The moon descended stilla.
1800
return


Variant 6:  
1815
... the planet dropp'd.
1800
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Sub-Footnote a:   Compare the lines in Arthur Hugh Clough's poem, The Stream of Life:
'And houses stand on either hand
And thou descendest still.'
Ed.
return to footnote mark


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"She dwelt among the untrodden ways"

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In the edition of 1800 it is entitled Song.—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!



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1800
A very few ...
1802
The text of the edition of 1805 returns to that of 1800.
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Variant 2:  
The word "lived" was italicised in the edition of 1800 only.
return


1799 Contents
Main Contents




"I travelled among unknown men"

Composed 1799.-Published 1807

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.



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Variant 1:  
The gladness of desire;
MS.
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Variant 2:  
1836
And thine is, too, the last green field
Which ...

1807
That ...
1815
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Footnote A:   Compare Sara Coleridge's comment on this poem in the Biographia Literaria (1847), vol. ii. chap. ix. p. 173. Also Mrs. Oliphant's remarks in her Literary History of the Nineteenth Century, vol. i. pp. 306-9.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


1799 Contents
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"Three years she grew in sun and shower"

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[1799. Composed in the Hartz Forest.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination." It has no title in any edition, but from 1820 to 1836 the second page occupied by the poem is headed "Lucy." In the editions of 1836 to 1843 it is called "Lucy" in the list of contents.—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse: and with me
The Girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;
And her's shall be the breathing balm,
And her's the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake—The work was done—
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.



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Variant 1:  
1800
Her Teacher I myself will be, She is my darling;— ...
MS. 1801, and the edition of 1802.
The edition of 1805 returns to the text of 1800.
return


Variant 2:   A reading—printed in the edition of 1800, but replaced in its list of errata by that given in the text—may be quoted here,
A beauty that shall mould her form ... 1800
return





Footnote A:   Compare Dryden's Indian Emperor, iv. 3.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   On Oct 9, 1800, S. T. Coleridge, in writing to Sir Humphry Davy of his own Christabel, said,
"I would rather have written Ruth, and Nature's Lady, than a million such poems."
This poem was printed in The Morning Post, March 2nd, 1801.—Ed.
return


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"A slumber did my spirit seal"

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

[Written in Germany.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination."A—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.



Contents








B





5








Footnote A:   It was one of the "Lucy" Poems. In his instructions to the printer in 1807, Wordsworth told him to insert "I travelled among unknown men" after "A slumber did my spirit seal."—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare Suckling's Fragmenta Aurea (The Tragedy of Brennoralt), p. 170, edition 1658.
Heavens! shall this fresh ornament of the world,
These precious love-lines, pass with other common things,
Amongst the wastes of time? What pity 'twere.
Ed.
return


1799 Contents
Main Contents




Address to the Scholars of the Village School of ——

Composed 1798 or 1799.—Published 1842

[Composed at Goslar, in Germany.—I. F.]

First published in "Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years," and included, in 1845, among the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
I come, ye little noisy Crew,
Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.
I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand:—it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead.
By night or day blow foul or fair,
Ne'er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair,
Or stand between his knees again.

Here did he sit confined for hours;
But he could see the woods and plains,
Could hear the wind and mark the showers
Come streaming down the streaming panes.
Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound
He rests a prisoner of the ground.
He loved the breathing air,
He loved the sun, but if it rise
Or set, to him where now he lies,
Brings not a moment's care.

Alas! what idle words; but take
The Dirge which for our Master's sake
And yours, love prompted me to make.
The rhymes so homely in attire
With learned ears may ill agree,
But chanted by your Orphan Quire
Will make a touching melody.


Dirge

Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone;
Thou Angler, by the silent flood;
And mourn when thou art all alone,
Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!

Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy
Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum;
And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy!
Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb.

Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide
Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth,
As he before had sanctified
Thy infancy with heavenly truth.

Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay,
Bold settlers on some foreign shore,
Give, when your thoughts are turned this way,
A sigh to him whom we deplore.

For us who here in funeral strain
With one accord our voices raise,
Let sorrow overcharged with pain
Be lost in thankfulness and praise.

And when our hearts shall feel a sting
From ill we meet or good we miss,
May touches of his memory bring
Fond healing, like a mother's kiss.


By the Side of the Grave Some Years After

Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat;
But benefits, his gift, we trace—
Expressed in every eye we meet
Round this dear Vale, his native place.

To stately Hall and Cottage rude
Flowed from his life what still they hold,
Light pleasures, every day, renewed;
And blessings half a century old.

Oh true of heart, of spirit gay,
Thy faults, where not already gone
From memory, prolong their stay
For charity's sweet sake alone.

Such solace find we for our loss;
And what beyond this thought we crave
Comes in the promise from the Cross,
Shining upon thy happy grave.


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Note:  To this poem, when first published in the "Poems of Early and Late Years" (1842), Wordsworth appended the note,
"See, upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces, The Fountain [p. 91], etc. etc. in the fifth volume of the Author's Poems."
He thus connects it with the poems referring to Matthew in such a way that it may be said to belong to that series; and, while he assigned it to the year 1798, both in the edition of 1845, and in that of 1849-50, it is quite possible that it was written in 1799. "The village school" was the Grammar School of Hawkshead, where Wordsworth spent his boyhood; and the schoolmaster was the Rev. William Taylor, M. A., Emmanuel College, Cambridge, who was the third of the four masters who taught in it during Wordsworth's residence there. He was master from 1782 to 1786. Just before his death he sent for the upper boys of the school (amongst whom was Wordsworth), and calling them into his room, took leave of them with a solemn blessing. This farewell doubtless suggested the lines:
the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.
Mr. Taylor was buried in Cartmell Churchyard. In The Prelude, Wordsworth writes of him as "an honoured teacher of my youth;" and there describes, with some minuteness, a visit to his grave. (See book x. l. 532.) It will be seen, however, from the Fenwick note to Matthew, that the Hawkshead Schoolmaster, like the Wanderer in The Excursion, was "made up of several both of his class and men of other occupations;" but of the four masters who taught Wordsworth at Hawkshead—Peake, Christian, Taylor, and Bowman—Taylor was far the ablest, the most interesting, and the most beloved by the boys, and it was doubtless the memory of this man that gave rise to the above poem, and the four which follow it. He was but thirty-two years old when he died, 12th June, 1786. This fact, taken in connection with line 14 of the Address, may illustrate the composite character of Matthew.—Ed.


1799 Contents
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Matthew

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

In the School of—is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the several persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines.—W. W. 1800.

[Such a tablet as is here spoken of continued to be preserved in Hawkshead School, though the inscriptions were not brought down to our time. This, and other poems connected with Matthew, would not gain by a literal detail of facts. Like the Wanderer in The Excursion this Schoolmaster was made up of several, both of his class and men of other occupations. I do not ask pardon for what there is of untruth in such verses, considered strictly as matters of fact. It is enough, if, being true and consistent in spirit, they move and teach in a manner not unworthy of a Poet's calling.—I. F.]A

In the editions of 1800 to 1820 this poem had no title except the note prefixed to it above, although in the Table of Contents it was called Lines written on a Tablet in a School. From 1820-32 "Matthew" is the page heading, though there is no title. In the editions of 1827 and 1832 it was named, in the Table of Contents, by its first line, "If Nature, for a favourite child." In 1837 it was entitled Matthew. It was included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." The Tablet, with the names of the Masters inscribed on it, still exists in Hawkshead School.—Ed.


The Poem


text variant footnote line number
If Nature, for a favourite child,
In thee hath tempered so her clay,
That every hour thy heart runs wild,
Yet never once doth go astray,

Read o'er these lines; and then review
This tablet, that thus humbly rears
In such diversity of hue
Its history of two hundred years.

—When through this little wreck of fame,
Cipher and syllable! thine eye
Has travelled down to Matthew's name,
Pause with no common sympathy.

And; if a sleeping tear should wake,
Then be it neither checked nor stayed:
For Matthew a request I make
Which for himself he had not made.

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,
Is silent as a standing pool;
Far from the chimney's merry roar,
And murmur of the village school.

The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs
Of one tired out with fun and madness;
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness.

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup
Of still and serious thought went round,
It seemed as if he drank it up—
He felt with spirit so profound.

—Thou soul of God's best earthly mould!
Thou happy Soul! and can it be
That these two words of glittering gold
Are all that must remain of thee?



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Variant 1:  
1815
... the oil ...
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1800
... to thee?
1805, and MS.
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return





Footnote A:   On the 27th March 1843, Wordsworth wrote to Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia:
"The character of the schoolmaster, had like the Wanderer in The Excursion a solid foundation in fact and reality, but like him it was also in some degree a composition: I will not, and need not, call it an invention—it was no such thing."
Ed.
return to footnote mark


1799 Contents
Main Contents




The Two April Mornings

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
"The will of God be done!"

A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.

"Our work," said I, "was well begun,
Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought?"

A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this which I have left
Full thirty years behind.

"And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.

"With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, to the church-yard come, stopped short
Beside my daughter's grave.

"Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
The pride of all the vale;
And then she sang;—she would have been
A very nightingale.

"Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.

"And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the church-yard yew,
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

"A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!

"No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

"There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;
I looked at her, and looked again:
And did not wish her mine!"

Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
Methinks, I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.



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1802
And on that slope of springing corn
The self-same crimson hue
Fell from the sky that April morn,
The same which now I view!



1800
return


Variant 2:  
1815
With rod and line my silent sport
I plied by Derwent's wave,

1800
return


Variant 3:  
1837
And, coming to the church, ...
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1800
... sung;— ...
1802
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 5:  
1820
... his bough
1800
return





Footnote A:   Compare the Winters Tale, act IV. scene iii. ll. 140-2:
'when you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that, etc.'
Ed.
return to footnote mark


1799 Contents
Main Contents




The Fountain

A Conversation

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.

"Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match
This water's pleasant tune
With some old border-song, or catch
That suits a summer's noon;

"Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made!"

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old Man replied,
The grey-haired man of glee:

"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears;
How merrily it goes!
'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.

"And here, on this delightful day,
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain's brink.

"My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.

"Thus fares it still in our decay:
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.

"The blackbird amid leafy trees,
The lark above the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.

"With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife; they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free:

"But we are pressed by heavy laws;
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.

"If there be one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own;
It is the man of mirth.

"My days, my Friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved."

"Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains!
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains;

"And, Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee!"
At this he grasped my hand, and said,
"Alas! that cannot be."

We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.



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Variant 1:  
1820
Now, Matthew, let us try to match
1800
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Variant 2:  
1837
Down to the vale this water steers,
1800
Down to the vale with eager speed
Behold this streamlet run,
From subterranean bondage freed,
And glittering in the sun.



C.
From subterranean darkness freed,
A pleasant course to run.

C.
Down to the vale this streamlet hies,
Look, how it seems to run,
As if 't were pleased with summer skies,
And glad to meet the sun.



C.
And glad to greet the sun.
MS.
No guide it needs, no check it fears,
How merrily it goes!
'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.



C.
Down towards the vale with eager speed,
Behold this streamlet run
As if 'twere pleased with summer skies
And glad to meet the sun.



C.
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Variant 3:  
1837
The blackbird in the summer trees,
The lark upon the hill,

1800
return


Variant 4:  
1832
... is ....
1800 and MS.
return


Variant 5:  
1815
... his hands, ...
1800
return





Footnote A:  
"Pour me plaindre a moy, regarde noti tant ce qu'on moste, que ce qui me reste de sauvre, et dedans et dehors."
Montaigne, Essais, iii. 12.

Compare also:
"Themistocles quidem, cum ei Simonides, an quis alius artem memoriæ polliceretur, Oblivionis, inquit, mallem; nam memini etiam quæ nolo, oblivisci non possum quæ volo."
Cicero, De Finibus, II. 32.—Ed.
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1799 Contents
Main Contents




To a Sexton

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

[Written in Germany, 1799.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Let thy wheel-barrow alone—
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy bone-house bone on bone?
'Tis already like a hill
In a field of battle made,
Where three thousand skulls are laid;
These died in peace each with the other,—
Father, sister, friend, and brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform, eight feet square,
Take not even a finger-joint:
Andrew's whole fire-side is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simon's sickly daughter lies,
From weakness now, and pain defended,
Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride—
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families!
By the heart of Man, his tears,
By his hopes and by his fears,
Thou, too heedless, art the Warden
Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!



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1845
Thou, old Grey-beard! ...
1800
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1799 Contents
Main Contents




The Danish Boy

A Fragment

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written in Germany, 1799. It was entirely a fancy; but intended as a prelude to a ballad-poem never written.—I. F.]

In the editions of 1800-1832 this poem was called A Fragment. From 1836 onwards it was named The Danish Boy. A Fragment. It was one of the "Poems of the Fancy." —Ed.





The Poem


stanza text variant footnote line number
I Between two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a lonely hut;
And in this dell you see
A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish Boy.







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II In clouds above, the lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest;
Within this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her nest.
No beast, no bird hath here his home;
Bees, wafted on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers:—to other dells
Their burthens do they bear;
The Danish Boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.

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III A Spirit of noon-day is he;
Yet seems a form of flesh and blood;
Nor piping shepherd shall he be,
Nor herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven's wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue
As budding pines in spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

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IV A harp is from his shoulder slung;
Resting the harp upon his knee;
To words of a forgotten tongue,
He suits its melody.
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill
He is the darling and the joy;
And often, when no cause appears,
The mountain-ponies prick their ears,
—They hear the Danish Boy,
While in the dell he sings alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.



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V There sits he; in his face you spy
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish Boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove:
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
And yet he warbles songs of war,
That seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien;
Like a dead Boy he is serene.



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Variant 1:  
1836
... a cottage hut;
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1827
He sings his blithest and his best;
1800
She sings, regardless of her rest,
1820
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Variant 3:  
1827
But in ...
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1820
... his ...
1800
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Variant 5:  
1827
The bees borne on ...
1800
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Variant 6:  
1827
Nor ever linger there.
1800
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Variant 7:  
1836
He seems ...
1800
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Variant 8:  
1802
A piping Shepherd he might be,
A Herd-boy of the wood.

1800
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Variant 9:  
1802
... nor ...
1800
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Variant 10:  
1836
He rests the harp upon his knee,
And there in a forgotten tongue
He warbles melody.


1800
return


Variant 11:  
1827
Of flocks and herds both far and near
1800
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills
1802
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Variant 12:  
1845
... sits ...
1800
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Variant 13:  
When near this blasted tree you pass,
Two sods are plainly to be seen
Close at its root, and each with grass
Is cover'd fresh and green.
Like turf upon a new-made grave
These two green sods together lie,
Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind
Can these two sods together bind,
Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,
But side by side the two are laid,
As if just sever'd by the spade.
This stanza occurs only in the edition of 1800.
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Variant 14:  
1815
They seem ...
1800
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Footnote A:  These Stanzas were designed to introduce a Ballad upon the Story of a Danish Prince who had fled from Battle, and, for the sake of the valuables about him, was murdered by the Inhabitant of a Cottage in which he had taken refuge. The House fell under a curse, and the Spirit of the Youth, it was believed, haunted the Valley where the crime had been committed.— W. W. 1827.
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1799 Contents
Main Contents




Lucy Gray; or, Solitude

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written at Goslar, in Germany, in 1799. It was founded on a circumstance told me by my sister, of a little girl, who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow storm. Her footsteps were tracked by her parents to the middle of a lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. The body, however, was found in the canal. The way in which the incident was treated, and the spiritualizing of the character, might furnish hints for contrasting the imaginative influences, which I have endeavoured to throw over common life, with Crabbe's matter-of-fact style of handling subjects of the same kind. This is not spoken to his disparagement, far from it; but to direct the attention of thoughtful readers into whose hands these notes may fall, to a comparison that may enlarge the circle of their sensibilities, and tend to produce in them a catholic judgment.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
—The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night—
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon—
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;—and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.

They wept—and, turning homeward, cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet;"
—When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed:
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none!

—Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.



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Variant 1:  
1800
Oft had I heard ...
Only in the second issue of 1800.
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Variant 2:  
1800 (2nd issue).
She dwelt on a wild Moor
1800
She lived on a wide Moor
MS.
return


Variant 3:  
1800
... bright ...
C.
return


Variant 4:  
1800
He snapped ...
MS.
return


Variant 5:  
1827
And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd
1800
And, turning homeward, now they cried
1815
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Variant 6:  
1800
The Mother turning homeward cried,
"We never more shall meet,"
When in the driven snow she spied


MS.
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Variant 7:  
1840
Then downward ...
1800
Half breathless ...
1827
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Variant 8:  
1800
... and never lost
Till ...

MS.
return


Variant 9:  
1827
The ...
1800
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Variant 10:  
1800
... was ...
1802
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return





Footnote A:   Compare Gray's ode, On a Distant Prospect of Eton College, II. 38-9:
'Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind.'
Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   This poem was illustrated by Sir George Beaumont, in a picture of some merit, which was engraved by J. C. Bromley, and published in the collected editions of 1815 and 1820. Henry Crabb Robinson wrote in his Diary, September 11, 1816 (referring to Wordsworth):
"He mentioned the origin of some poems. Lucy Gray, that tender and pathetic narrative of a child lost on a common, was occasioned by the death of a child who fell into the lock of a canal. His object was to exhibit poetically entire solitude, and he represents the child as observing the day-moon, which no town or village girl would ever notice."
A contributor to Notes and Queries, May 12, 1883, whose signature is F., writes:
"The Scene of Lucy Gray.—In one of the editions of Wordsworth's works the scene of this ballad is said to have been near Halifax, in Yorkshire. I do not think the poet was acquainted with the locality beyond a sight of the country in travelling through on some journey. I know of no spot where all the little incidents mentioned in the poem would exactly fit in, and a few of the local allusions are evidently by a stranger. There is no 'minster'; the church at Halifax from time immemorial has always been known as the 'parish church,' and sometimes as the 'old church,' but has never been styled 'the minster.' The 'mountain roe,' which of course may be brought in as poetically illustrative, has not been seen on these hills for generations, and I scarcely think even the 'fawn at play' for more than a hundred years. These misapplications, it is almost unnecessary to say, do not detract from the beauty of the poetry. Some of the touches are graphically true to the neighbourhood, as, for instance, 'the wide moor,' the 'many a hill,' the 'steep hill's edge,' the 'long stone wall,' and the hint of the general loneliness of the region where Lucy 'no mate, no comrade, knew.' I think I can point out the exact spot—no longer a 'plank,' but a broad, safe bridge—where Lucy fell into the water. Taking a common-sense view, that she would not be sent many miles at two o'clock on a winter afternoon to the town (Halifax, of course), over so lonely a mountain moor—bearing in mind also that this moor overlooked the river, and that the river was deep and strong enough to carry the child down the current—I know only one place where such an accident could have occurred. The clue is in this verse:
'At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.'
The hill I take to be the high ridge of Greetland and Norland Moor, and the plank she had to cross Sterne Mill Bridge, which there spans the Calder, broad and rapid enough at any season to drown either a young girl or a grown-up person. The mountain burns, romantic and wild though they be, are not dangerous to cross, especially for a child old enough to go and seek her mother. To sum up the matter, the hill overlooking the moor, the path to and distance from the town, the bridge, the current, all indicate one point, and one point only, where this accident could have happened, and that is the bridge near Sterne Mill. This bridge is so designated from the Sterne family, a branch of whom in the last century resided close by. The author of Tristram Shandy spent his boyhood here; and Lucy Gray, had she safely crossed the plank, would immediately have passed Wood Hall, where the boy Laurence had lived, and, pursuing her way to Halifax, would have gone through the meadows in which stood Heath School, where young Sterne had been educated. The mill-weir at Sterne Mill Bridge was, I believe, the scene of Lucy Gray's death."
Sterne Mill Bridge, however, crosses the river Calder, while Wordsworth tells us that the girl lost her life by falling "into the lock of a canal." The Calder runs parallel with the canal near Sterne Mill Bridge. See J.R. Tutin's Wordsworth in Yorkshire.—Ed.


1799 Contents
Main Contents




Ruth

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written in Germany, 1799. Suggested by an account I had of a wanderer in Somersetshire.—I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections" in the editions of 1815 and 1820. In 1827 it was transferred to the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.


The Poem


text variant footnote line number
When Ruth was left half desolate,
Her Father took another Mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill,
In thoughtless freedom, bold.

And she had made a pipe of straw,
And music from that pipe could draw
Like sounds of winds and floods;
Had built a bower upon the green,
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.

Beneath her father's roof, alone
She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight;
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;
And, passing thus the live-long day,
She grew to woman's height.

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore—
A military casque he wore,
With splendid feathers drest;
He brought them from the Cherokees;
The feathers nodded in the breeze,
And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
But no! he spake the English tongue,
And bore a soldier's name;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy,
He 'cross the ocean came.

With hues of genius on his cheek
In finest tones the Youth could speak:
—While he was yet a boy,
The moon, the glory of the sun,
And streams that murmur as they run,
Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely Youth! I guess
The panther in the wilderness
Was not so fair as he;
And, when he chose to sport and play,
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought,
And with him many tales he brought
Of pleasure and of fear;
Such tales as told to any maid
By such a Youth, in the green shade,
Were perilous to hear.

He told of girls—a happy rout!
Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
Their pleasant Indian town,
To gather strawberries all day long;
Returning with a choral song
When daylight is gone down.

He spake of plants that hourly change
Their blossoms, through a boundless range
Of intermingling hues;
With budding, fading, faded flowers
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening dews,

He told of the magnolia, spread
High as a cloud, high over head!
The cypress and her spire;
—Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
To set the hills on fire.

The Youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake,
With all its fairy crowds
Of islands, that together lie
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds.

"How pleasant," then he said, "it were
A fisher or a hunter there,
In sunshine or in shade
To wander with an easy mind;
And build a household fire, and find
A home in every glade!

"What days and what bright years! Ah me!
Our life were life indeed, with thee
So passed in quiet bliss,
And all the while," said he, "to know
That we were in a world of woe,
On such an earth as this!"

And then he sometimes interwove
Fond thoughts about a father's love:
"For there," said he, "are spun
Around the heart such tender ties,
That our own children to our eyes
Are dearer than the sun.

"Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
My helpmate in the woods to be,
Our shed at night to rear;
Or run, my own adopted bride,
A sylvan huntress at my side,
And drive the flying deer!

"Belovèd Ruth!"—No more he said.
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
A solitary tear:
She thought again—and did agree
With him to sail across the sea,
And drive the flying deer.

"And now, as fitting is and right,
We in the church our faith will plight,
A husband and a wife."
Even so they did; and I may say
That to sweet Ruth that happy day
Was more than human life.

Through dream and vision did she sink,
Delighted all the while to think
That on those lonesome floods,
And green savannahs, she should share
His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the wild woods.

But, as you have before been told,
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
And, with his dancing crest,
So beautiful, through savage lands
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands
Of Indians in the West.

The wind, the tempest roaring high,
The tumult of a tropic sky,
Might well be dangerous food
For him, a Youth to whom was given
So much of earth—so much of heaven,
And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those climes he found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to his mind impart
A kindred impulse, seemed allied
To his own powers, and justified
The workings of his heart.

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings, which they sent
Into those favored bowers.

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent:
For passions linked to forms so fair
And stately, needs must have their share
Of noble sentiment.

But ill he lived, much evil saw,
With men to whom no better law
Nor better life was known;
Deliberately, and undeceived,
Those wild men's vices he received,
And gave them back his own.

His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, and he became
The slave of low desires:
A Man who without self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul
Unworthily admires.

And yet he with no feigned delight
Had wooed the Maiden, day and night
Had loved her, night and morn:
What could he less than love a Maid
Whose heart with so much nature played
So kind and so forlorn!

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said,
"O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain,
Encompassed me on every side
When I, in confidence and pride,
Had crossed the Atlantic main.

"Before me shone a glorious world—
Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled
To music suddenly:
I looked upon those hills and plains,
And seemed as if let loose from chains,
To live at liberty.

"No more of this; for now, by thee,
Dear Ruth! more happily set free
With nobler zeal I burn;
My soul from darkness is released,
Like the whole sky when to the east
The morning doth return."

Full soon that better mind was gone;
No hope, no wish remained, not one,—
They stirred him now no more;
New objects did new pleasure give,
And once again he wished to live
As lawless as before.

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
They for the voyage were prepared,
And went to the sea-shore,
But, when they thither came, the Youth
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.

God help thee, Ruth!-Such pains she had,
That she in half a year was mad,
And in a prison housed;
And there, with many a doleful song
Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
She fearfully caroused.

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor pastimes of the May;
—They all were with her in her cell;
And a clear brook with cheerful knell
Did o'er the pebbles play.

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
There came a respite to her pain;
She from her prison fled;
But of the Vagrant none took thought;
And where it liked her best she sought
Her shelter and her bread.

Among the fields she breathed again:
The master-current of her brain
Ran permanent and free;
And, coming to the Banks of Tone,
There did she rest; and dwell alone
Under the greenwood tree.

The engines of her pain, the tools
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves—she loved them still;
Nor ever taxed them with the ill
Which had been done to her.

A Barn her winter bed supplies;
But, till the warmth of summer skies
And summer days is gone,
(And all do in this tale agree)
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
And other home hath none.

An innocent life, yet far astray!
And Ruth will, long before her day,
Be broken down and old:
Sore aches she needs must have! but less
Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
From damp, and rain, and cold.

If she is prest by want of food,
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road-side;
And there she begs at one steep place
Where up and down with easy pace
The horsemen-travellers ride.

That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute
Her loneliness she cheers:
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
At evening in his homeward walk
The Quantock woodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild—
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy Child!

Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould
Thy corpse shall buried be,
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.



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Variant 1:  
1802
And so, not seven years old,
The slighted Child ...

1800
return


Variant 2:  
1836
And from that oaten pipe could draw
All sounds ...

1800
return


Variant 3:  
This stanza was added in the edition of 1802.
return


Variant 4:  
1827
She pass'd her time; and in this way
Grew up to Woman's height.

1802
return


Variant 5:  
1836
Ah no! ...
1800
return


Variant 6:  
1805
... bare ...
1800
return


Variant 7:  
1836
He spake of plants divine and strange
That ev'ry day their blossoms change,
Ten thousand lovely hues!


1800
... every hour ...
1802
return


Variant 8:  
Of march and ambush, siege and fight,
Then did he tell; and with delight
The heart of Ruth would ache;
Wild histories they were, and dear:
But 'twas a thing of heaven to hear
When of himself he spake!





Only in the editions of 1802 and 1805.

The following is the order of the stanzas in the edition of 1802.
The first, fifth, and last had not appeared before.

Sometimes most earnestly he said;
"O Ruth! I have been worse than dead:
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
Encompass'd me on every side
When I, in thoughtlessness and pride,
Had cross'd the Atlantic Main.

Whatever in those Climes I found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to my mind impart
A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
To my own powers, and justified
The workings of my heart.

Nor less to feed unhallow'd thought
The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
Fair trees and lovely flowers;
The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings which they sent
Into those magic bowers.

Yet, in my worst pursuits, I ween,
That often there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent;
My passions, amid forms so fair
And stately, wanted not their share
Of noble sentiment.

So was it then, and so is now:
For, Ruth! with thee I know not how
I feel my spirit burn
Even as the east when day comes forth;
And to the west, and south, and north,
The morning doth return.

It is a purer better mind:
O Maiden innocent and kind
What sights I might have seen!
Even now upon my eyes they break!"
—And he again began to speak
Of Lands where he had been.
The last stanza is only in the editions of 1802-1805a.
return


Variant 9:  
1836
And then he said "How sweet it were
1800
return


Variant 10:  
1845
A gardener in the shade,
Still wandering with an easy mind
To build ...


1800
In sunshine or through shade
To wander with an easy mind;
And build ...


1836
return


Variant 11:  
1836
... sweet ...
1800
return


Variant 12:  
1832
Dear ...
1800
return


Variant 13:  
1820
Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed
1800
return


Variant 14:  
1800
... unhallow'd ...
1802 and MS.
The edition of 1805 returns to the reading of 1800.
return


Variant 15:  
1845
... lovely ...
1800
return


Variant 16:  
1845
... magic ...
1800
... gorgeous ...
1815
return


Variant 17:  
1800
That often ...
1802
The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 18:  
1800
For passions, amid forms so fair
And stately, wanted not their share

1802
The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 19:  
1800
Ill did he live ...
1802
The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 20:  
1805
When I, in thoughtlessness and pride,
Had crossed ...

1802
When first, in confidence and pride,
I crossed ...

1820
C., and the edition of 1840, revert to the reading of 1805.
return


Variant 21:  
1840 and C.
"It was a fresh and glorious world,
A banner bright that was unfurled
Before me suddenly:


1805
A banner bright that shone unfurled
1836
return


Variant 22:  
Lines 163-168, and 175-180, were added in 1802. Lines 169-174 were added in 1805. All these were omitted in 1815, but were restored in 1820.
return


Variant 23:  
1845
So was it then, and so is now:
For, Ruth! with thee I know not how
I feel my spirit burn


1802
"But wherefore speak of this? for now,
Sweet Ruth! with thee, ...
1805
Dear Ruth! with thee ...
1836
return


Variant 24:  
1836
Even as the east when day comes forth;
And to the west, and south, and north,

1802
return


Variant 25:  
It is my purer better mind
O maiden innocently kind
What sights I might have seen!
Even now upon my eyes they break!
And then the youth began to speak
Of lands where he had been.





MS.
return


Variant 26:  
1845
But now the pleasant dream was gone,
1800
Full soon that purer mind ...
1820
return


Variant 27:  
1836
And there, exulting in her wrongs,
Among the music of her songs
She fearfully carouz'dib.


1800
And there she sang tumultuous songs,
By recollection of her wrongs,
To fearful passion rouzed.


1820
return


Variant 28:  
1836
wild brook....
1800
return


Variant 29:  
1802
And to the pleasant Banks of Tone
She took her way, to dwell alone

1800
return


Variant 30:  
1802
... grief, ...
1800
return


Variant 31:  
1805
(And in this tale we all agree)
1800
return


Variant 32:  
1805
The neighbours grieve for her, and say
That she will ...

1802
return


Variant 33:  
This stanza first appeared in the edition of 1802.
return





Footnote A:   Taken from the portrait of the chief in Bartram's frontispiece.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  
"The tall aspiring Gordonia lacianthus ... gradually changing colour, from green to golden yellow, from that to a scarlet, from scarlet to crimson, and lastly to a brownish purple, ... so that it may be said to change and renew its garments every morning throughout the year."
See Travels through North and South Carolina, Georgia, East Florida, the Cherokee Country, etc., by William Bartram (1791), pp. 159, 160.—Ed.
return


Footnote C:  
"Its thick foliage of a dark green colour is flowered over with large milk-white, fragrant blossoms, ... renewed every morning, and that in such incredible profusion that the tree appears silvered over with them, and the ground beneath covered with the fallen flowers. It, at the same time, continually pushes forth new twigs, with young buds on them."
(Bartram's Travels, etc., p. 159.)—Ed.
return


Footnote D:   Magnolia grandiflora.—W. W. 1800; and Bartram's Travels, p. 8. —Ed.
return


Footnote E:  
"The Cypressus distichia stands in the first order of North American trees. Its majestic stature, lifting its cumbrous top towards the skies, and casting a wide shade upon the ground, as a dark intervening cloud," etc.
(Bartram's Travels, p. 88).—Ed.
return


Footnote F:   The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North America is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels.—W. W. 1800.
return


Footnote G:   Mr. Ernest Coleridge tells me he
"has traced, to a note-book of Coleridge's in the British Museum, the source from which Wordsworth derived his description of Georgian scenery in Ruth. He does, I know, refer to Bartram, but the whole passage is a poetical rendering, and a pretty close one, of Bartram's poetical narrative. I have a portrait—the frontispiece of Bartram's Travels—of Mico Chlucco, king of the Seminoles, whose feathers nod in the breeze just as did the military casque of the 'youth from Georgia's shore.'"
Ed.
return


Footnote H:  
"North and south almost endless green plains and meadows, embellished with islets and projecting promontories of high dark forests, where the pyramidal Magnolia grandiflora ... conspicuously towers."
(Bartram's Travels, p. 145).—Ed.
return


Footnote I:   The Tone is a River of Somersetshire, at no great distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods. W. W. 1800.
return





Sub-Footnote a:  The edition of 1805 substitutes the stanzas beginning,
'It was a fresh and glorious world'
for stanzas 2, 3, and 4 of the above six in this note, but it inserts these omitted stanzas later on as Nos. 27, 28, 29.—Ed.
return


Sub-Footnote b:   Wordsworth wrote to Barren Field in 1828 that this stanza
"was altered, Lamb having observed that it was not English. I like it better myself;'
(i.e. the version of 1800)
"but certainly to carouse cups—that is to empty them—is the genuine English."
Ed.
return





Note:   The following extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date of the stanzas added to Ruth in subsequent editions:
"Sunday, March 8th, 1802.—I stitched up The Pedlar, wrote out Ruth, read it with the alterations.... William brought two new stanzas of Ruth."
The transpositions of stanzas, and their omission from certain editions and their subsequent re-introduction, in altered form, in later ones, make it extremely difficult to give the textual history of Ruth in footnotes. They are even more bewildering than the changes introduced into Simon Lee.—Ed.


1799 Contents
Main Contents






1798 end of Volume II: 1799 1800
Main Contents







Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1800



Edited by William Knight

1896



Table of Contents






1800

Towards the close of December 1799, Wordsworth came to live at Dove Cottage, Town-end, Grasmere. The poems written during the following year (1800), are more particularly associated with that district of the Lakes. Two of them were fragments of a canto of The Recluse, entitled "Home at Grasmere," referring to his settlement at Dove Cottage. Others, such as Michael, and The Brothers—classed by him afterwards among the "Poems founded on the Affections,"—deal with incidents in the rural life of the dalesmen of Westmoreland and Cumberland. Most of the "Poems on the Naming of Places" were written during this year; and the "Places" are all in the neighbourhood of Grasmere. To these were added several "Pastoral Poems"—such as The Idle Shepherd Boys; or, Dungeon-Ghyll Force—sundry "Poems of the Fancy," and one or two "Inscriptions." In all, twenty-five poems were written in the year 1800; and, with the exception of the two fragments of The Recluse, they were published during the same year in the second volume of the second edition of "Lyrical Ballads." It is impossible to fix the precise date of the composition of the fragments of The Recluse; but, as they refer to the settlement at Dove Cottage—where Wordsworth went to reside with his sister, on the 21st of December 1799—they may fitly introduce the poems belonging to the year 1800. They were first published in 1851 in the Memoirs of Wordsworth (vol. i. pp. 157 and 155 respectively), by the poet's nephew, the late Bishop of Lincoln. The entire canto of The Recluse, entitled "Home at Grasmere," will be included in this edition.

The first two poems which follow, as belonging to the year 1800, are parts of The Recluse, viz. "On Nature's invitation do I come," (which is ll. 71-97, and 110-125), and "Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak," (which is ll. 152-167). They are not reprinted from the Memoirs of 1851, because the text there given was, in several instances, inaccurately reproduced from the original MS., which has been re-examined. They were printed here, in The Recluse(1888), and in my Life of Wordsworth (vol. i. 1889).—Ed.



Contents 1800
Main Contents




"On Nature's invitation do I come"

Composed (probably) in 1800.—Published 1851





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
On Nature's invitation do I come,
By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead,
That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth,
With all its unappropriated good,
My own, and not mine only, for with me
Entrenched—say rather peacefully embowered—
Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,
A younger orphan of a home extinct,
The only daughter of my parents dwells:
Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir;
Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame
No longer breathe, but all be satisfied.
Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God
For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then
Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'er
Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind
Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts,
But either she, whom now I have, who now
Divides with me this loved abode, was there,
Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned,
Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang;
The thought of her was like a flash of light
Or an unseen companionship, a breath
Or fragrance independent of the wind.
In all my goings, in the new and old
Of all my meditations, and in this
Favourite of all, in this the most of all....
Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in.
Now in the clear and open day I feel
Your guardianship: I take it to my heart;
'Tis like the solemn shelter of the night.
But I would call thee beautiful; for mild,
And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art,
Dear valley, having in thy face a smile,
Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased,
Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy lake,
Its one green island, and its winding shores,
The multitude of little rocky hills,
Thy church, and cottages of mountain-stone
Clustered like stars some few, but single most,
And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,
Or glancing at each other cheerful looks,
Like separated stars with clouds between.



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Note:   This Grasmere cottage is identified, much more than Rydal Mount, with Wordsworth's "poetic prime." It had once been a public-house, bearing the sign of the Dove and Olive Bough—and as such is referred to in The Waggoner—from which circumstance it was for a long time, and is now usually, called "Dove Cottage." A small two storied house, it is described somewhat minutely—as it was in Wordsworth's time—by De Quincey, in his Recollections of the Lakes, and by the late Bishop of Lincoln, in the Memoirs of his uncle.
"The front of it faces the lake; behind is a small plot of orchard and garden ground, in which there is a spring and rocks; the enclosure shelves upwards towards the woody sides of the mountains above it."A
The following is De Quincey's description of it, as he saw it in the summer of 1807.
"A white cottage, with two yew trees breaking the glare of its white walls" (these yews still stand on the eastern side of the cottage). "A little semi-vestibule between two doors prefaced the entrance into what might be considered the principal room of the cottage. It was an oblong square, not above eight and a half feet high, sixteen feet long, and twelve broad; wainscoted from floor to ceiling with dark polished oak, slightly embellished with carving. One window there was—a perfect and unpretending cottage window, with little diamond panes, embowered at almost every season of the year with roses; and, in the summer and autumn, with a profusion of jasmine, and other fragrant shrubs.... I was ushered up a little flight of stairs, fourteen in all, to a little drawing-room, or whatever the reader chooses to call it. Wordsworth himself has described the fireplace of this room as his
'Half-kitchen and half-parlour fire.'
It was not fully seven feet six inches high, and in other respects pretty nearly of the same dimensions as the rustic hall below. There was, however, in a small recess, a library of perhaps three hundred volumes, which seemed to consecrate the room as the poet's study and composing room, and such occasionally it was. But far oftener he both studied, as I found, and composed on the high road."B
Other poems of later years refer, much more fully than the above, to this cottage, and its orchard ground, where so many of Wordsworth's lyrics were composed.

The "orchard ground," which was for the most part in grass, sloped upwards; but a considerable portion of the natural rock was exposed; and on its face, some rough stone steps were cut by Wordsworth, helped by a near neighbour of his—John Fisher—so as more conveniently to reach the upper terrace, where the poet built for himself a small arbour. All this garden and orchard ground is not much altered since 1800. The short terrace walk is curved, with a sloping bank of grass above, shaded by apple trees, hazel, holly, laburnum, laurel, and mountain ash. Below the terrace is the well, which supplied the cottage in Wordsworth's time; and there large leaved primroses still grow, doubtless the successors of those planted by his own and his sister's hands. Above, and amongst the rocks, are the daffodils, which they also brought to their "garden-ground;" the Christmas roses, which they planted near the well, were removed to the eastern side of the garden, where they flourished luxuriantly in 1882; but have now, alas! disappeared. The box-wood planted by the poet grows close to the cottage. The arbour is now gone; but, in the place where it stood, a seat is erected. The hidden brook still sings its under-song, as it used to do, "its quiet soul on all bestowing," and the green linnet may doubtless be seen now, as it used to be in 1803. The allusions to the garden ground at Dove Cottage, in the poems which follow, will be noted as they occur.—Ed.



Contents 1800
Main Contents


Footnote A:   See the Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. p. 156.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  See Recollections of the Lakes, etc., pp. 130-137, Works, vol. ii., edition of 1862.—Ed.
return





"Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak"A

Composed (probably) in 1800.—Published 1851





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak,
When hitherward we journeyed, side by side,
Through burst of sunshine and through flying showers,
Paced the long vales, how long they were, and yet
How fast that length of way was left behind,
Wensley's rich vale and Sedbergh's naked heights.
The frosty wind, as if to make amends
For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps,
And drove us onward like two ships at sea;
Or, like two birds, companions in mid-air,
Parted and reunited by the blast.
Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced
In that stern countenance; for our souls thence drew
A feeling of their strength. The naked trees,
The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared
To question us, "Whence come ye? To what end?"



Note
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5




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Footnote A:   This is a fragment of The Recluse, ll. 152-167; but it was originally published in the Memoirs of Wordsworth by his nephew (1851).—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   This poem refers to a winter journey on foot, which Wordsworth and his sister took from Sockburn to Grasmere, by Wensleydale and Askrigg; and, since he has left us an account of this journey, in a letter to Coleridge, written a few days after their arrival at Grasmere—a letter in which his characterisation of Nature is almost as happy as it is in his best poems—some extracts from it may here be appended.
"We left Sockburn last Tuesday morning. We crossed the Tees by moonlight in the Sockburn fields, and after ten good miles riding came in sight of the Swale. It is there a beautiful river, with its green banks and flat holms scattered over with trees. Four miles further brought us to Richmond, with its huge ivied castle, its friarage steeple, its castle tower resembling a huge steeple.... We were now in Wensleydale, and D. and I set off side by side to foot it as far as Kendal.... We reached Askrigg, twelve miles, before six in the evening, having been obliged to walk the last two miles over hard frozen roads.... Next morning the earth was thinly covered with snow, enough to make the road soft and prevent its being slippery. On leaving Askrigg we turned aside to see another waterfall. It was a beautiful morning, with driving snow showers, which disappeared by fits, and unveiled the east, which was all one delicious pale orange colour. After walking through two small fields we came to a mill, which we passed, and in a moment a sweet little valley opened before us, with an area of grassy ground, and a stream dashing over various laminæ of black rocks close under a bank covered with firs; the bank and stream on our left, another woody bank on our right, and the flat meadow in front, from which, as at Buttermere, the stream had retired, as it were, to hide itself under the shade. As we walked up this delightful valley we were tempted to look back perpetually on the stream, which reflected the orange lights of the morning among the gloomy rocks, with a brightness varying with the agitation of the current. The steeple of Askrigg was between us and the east, at the bottom of the valley; it was not a quarter of a mile distant.... The two banks seemed to join before us with a facing of rock common to them both. When we reached this bottom the valley opened out again; two rocky banks on each side, which, hung with ivy and moss, and fringed luxuriantly with brushwood, ran directly parallel to each other, and then approaching with a gentle curve at their point of union, presented a lofty waterfall, the termination of the valley. It was a keen frosty morning, showers of snow threatening us, but the sun bright and active. We had a task of twenty-one miles to perform in a short winter's day.... On a nearer approach the waters seemed to fall down a tall arch or niche that had shaped itself by insensible moulderings in the wall of an old castle. We left this spot with reluctance, but highly exhilarated.... It was bitter cold, the wind driving the snow behind us in the best style of a mountain storm. We soon reached an inn at a place called Hardrane, and descending from our vehicles, after warming ourselves by the cottage fire, we walked up the brook-side to take a view of a third waterfall. We had not walked above a few hundred yards between two winding rocky banks before we came full upon the waterfall, which seemed to throw itself in a narrow line from a lofty wall of rock, the water, which shot manifestly to some distance from the rock, seeming to be dispersed into a thin shower scarcely visible before it reached the bason. We were disappointed in the cascade itself, though the introductory and accompanying banks were an exquisite mixture of grandeur and beauty.... After cautiously sounding our way over stones of all colours and sizes, encased in the clearest water formed by the spray of the fall, we found the rock, which before had appeared like a wall, extending itself over our heads, like the ceiling of a huge cave, from the summit of which the waters shot directly over our heads into a bason, and among fragments wrinkled over with masses of ice as white as snow, or rather, as Dorothy says, like congealed froth. The water fell at least ten yards from us, and we stood directly behind it, the excavation not so deep in the rock as to impress any feeling of darkness, but lofty and magnificent; but in connection with the adjoining banks excluding as much of the sky as could well be spared from a scene so exquisitely beautiful. The spot where we stood was as dry as the chamber in which I am now sitting, and the incumbent rock, of which the groundwork was limestone, veined and dappled with colours which melted into each other with every possible variety of colour. On the summit of the cave were three festoons, or rather wrinkles, in the rock, run up parallel like the folds of a curtain when it is drawn up. Each of these was hung with icicles of various length, and nearly in the middle of the festoon, in the deepest valley of the waves that ran parallel to each other, the stream shot from the rows of icicles in irregular fits of strength, and with a body of water that varied every moment. Sometimes the stream shot into the bason in one continued current; sometimes it was interrupted almost in the midst of its fall, and was blown towards part of the waterfall at no great distance from our feet like the heaviest thunder shower. In such a situation you have at every moment a feeling of the presence of the sky. Large fleecy clouds drove over our heads above the rush of the water, and the sky appeared of a blue more than usually brilliant. The rocks on each side, which, joining with the side of this cave, formed the vista of the brook, were chequered with three diminutive waterfalls, or rather courses of water. Each of these was a miniature of all that summer and winter can produce of delicate beauty. The rock in the centre of the falls, where the water was most abundant, a deep black, the adjoining parts yellow, white, purple, and dove colour, covered with water—plants of the most vivid green, and hung with streaming icicles, that in some places seem to conceal the verdure of the plants and the violet and yellow variegation of the rocks; and in some places render the colours more brilliant. I cannot express to you the enchanting effect produced by this Arabian scene of colour as the wind blew aside the great waterfall behind which we stood, and alternately hid and revealed each of these fairy cataracts in irregular succession, or displayed them with various gradations of distinctness as the intervening spray was thickened or dispersed. What a scene too in summer! In the luxury of our imagination we could not help feeding upon the pleasure which this cave, in the heat of a July noon, would spread through a frame exquisitely sensible. That huge rock on the right, the bank winding round on the left with all its living foliage, and the breeze stealing up the valley, and bedewing the cavern with the freshest imaginable spray. And then the murmur of the water, the quiet, the seclusion, and a long summer day."
Ed.


Contents 1800
Main Contents




Ellen Irwin; or, The Braes of KirtleA

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

The Poem

[It may be worth while to observe that as there are Scotch Poems on this subject in simple ballad strain, I thought it would be both presumptuous and superfluous to attempt treating it in the same way; and, accordingly, I chose a construction of stanza quite new in our language; in fact, the same as that of Bürger's Leonora, except that the first and third lines do not, in my stanzas, rhyme. At the outset I threw out a classical image to prepare the reader for the style in which I meant to treat the story, and so to preclude all comparison.—I. F.]

In the editions of 1815 and 1820 this was included among the "Poems founded on the Affections." In 1827 it was placed in the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses?
Alas that ever he was born!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;
Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts
That through his brain are travelling,
Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce
He launched a deadly javelin!
Fair Ellen saw it as it came,
And, starting up to meet the same,
Did with her body cover
The Youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love,
The mortal spear repelling.
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;
And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish crescent.

But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,
This wretched Knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing.
So, coming his last help to crave,
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave
His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkonnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn Hic jacet.



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Variant 1:  
1815
The Gordon ...
1800
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Variant 2:  
1837
But what is Gordon's beauteous face?
And what are Gordon's crosses
To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes
Upon the verdant mosses?



1800
return


Variant 3:  
1837
Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1837
And, starting up, to Bruce's heart
1800
return


Variant 5:  
1837
Fair Ellen saw it when it came,
And, stepping forth ...

1800
return


Variant 6:  
1827
So coming back across the wave,
Without a groan on Ellen's grave

1800
And coming back ...
1802
return





Footnote A:   The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on whose banks the events here related took place.—W. W. 1800.
return to footnote mark





Note:   No Scottish ballad is superior in pathos to Helen of Kirkconnell. It is based on a traditionary tale—the date of the event being lost—but the locality, in the parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleming in Dumfriesshire, is known; and there the graves of "Burd Helen" and her lover are still pointed out.

The following is Sir Walter Scott's account of the story:
"A lady of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell (for this is disputed by the two clans), daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell in Dumfriesshire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick: that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has been alleged he was a Bell of Blackel-house. The addresses of the latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the Churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot, surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of their private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces."
See Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. ii. p. 317.

The original ballad—well known though it is—may be quoted as an admirable illustration of the different types of poetic genius in dealing with the same, or a kindred, theme.
I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell lee!

Cursed be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

Oh think ye na my heart was sair,
When my love dropt down and spake nae mair!
There did she swoon wi' meikle care,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirkconnell lee—

I lighted down, my sword did draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.

Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll weave a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I dee!

Oh that I were where Helen lies!
Day and night on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
Were I with thee I would be blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding sheet drawn o'er my e'en,
And I in Helen's arms lying
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies,
For her sake that died for me!
Ed.


Contents 1800
Main Contents




Hart-Leap Well

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

The Poem

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road which leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chace, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described them.—W. W. 1800.

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The first eight stanzas were composed extempore one winter evening in the cottage, when, after having tired myself with labouring at an awkward passage in The Brothers, I started with a sudden impulse to this to get rid of the other, and finished it in a day or two. My sister and I had passed the place a few weeks before in our wild winter journey from Sockburn on the banks of the Tees to Grasmere. A peasant whom we met near the spot told us the story so far as concerned the name of the Well, and the Hart, and pointed out the Stones. Both the stones and the well are objects that may easily be missed. The tradition by this time may be extinct in the neighbourhood. The man who related it to us was very old.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Imagination,"—Ed.





The Poem




Part the First

text variant footnote line number
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud
And now, as he approached a vassal's door,
"Bring forth another horse!" he cried aloud.

"Another horse!"—That shout the vassal heard
And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
The horse and horseman are a happy pair;
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
That as they galloped made the echoes roar;
But horse and man are vanished, one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,
The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
—This chase it looks not like an earthly chase;
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned;
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched:
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched
The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot!)
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill—(it was at least
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now
Such sight was never seen by human eyes:
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
Down to the very fountain where he lies.

"I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small arbour, made for rural joy;
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.

"A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell!
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it Hart-Leap Well.

"And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.

"And, in the summer-time when days are long,
I will come hither with my Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.

"Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My mansion with its arbour shall endure;—
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!"

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,
With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.
—Soon did the Knight perform what he had said;
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered,
A cup of stone received the living well;
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.

And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,—
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

And thither, when the summer days were long
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.—
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.



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Part the Second

text variant footnote line number
The moving accident is not my trade;
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three aspens at three corners of a square;
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.

What this imported I could ill divine:
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line,—
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.

The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head:
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green;
So that you just might say, as then I said,
"Here in old time the hand of man hath been."

I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,
Came up the hollow:—him did I accost,
And what this place might be I then inquired.

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.
"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old!
But something ails it now: the spot is curst.

"You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood—
Some say that they are beeches, others elms—
These were the bower; and here a mansion stood,
The finest palace of a hundred realms!

"The arbour does its own condition tell;
You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream;
But as to the great Lodge! you might as well
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

"There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

"Some say that here a murder has been done,
And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part,
I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy Hart.

"What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past!
Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep,
Are but three bounds—and look, Sir, at this last—
O Master! it has been a cruel leap.

"For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
And in my simple mind we cannot tell
What cause the Hart might have to love this place,
And come and make his death-bed near the well.

"Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
Lulled by the fountain in the summer tide;
This water was perhaps the first he drank
When he had wandered from his mother's side.

"In April here beneath the flowering thorn
He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

"Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;
The sun on drearier hollow never shone;
So will it be, as I have often said,
Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone."

"Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:
This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell;
His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

"The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

"The pleasure-house is dust:—behind, before,
This is no common waste, no common gloom;
But Nature, in due course of time, once more
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

"She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
That what we are, and have been, may be known;
But at the coming of the milder day,
These monuments shall all be overgrown.

"One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals;
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."



Note
Contents



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Variant 1:  
1836
He turn'd aside towards a Vassal's door,
And, "Bring another Horse!" he cried aloud.

1800
return


Variant 2:  
1827
Brach, ...
1800
return


Variant 3:  
1827
... he chid and cheer'd them on
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1800
With fawning kindness ...
MS.
return


Variant 5:  
1802
... of the chace?
1800
return


Variant 6:  
1802
This race it looks not like an earthly race;
1800
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Variant 7:  
1820
... smack'd ...
1800
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Variant 8:  
1820
... act;
1800
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Variant 9:  
1820
And foaming like a mountain cataract.
1800
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Variant 10:  
1820
His nose half-touch'd ...
1800
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Variant 11:  
1820
Was never man in such a joyful case,
1800
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Variant 12:  
1820
.... place.
1800
return


Variant 13:  
1802
... turning ...
1800
return


Variant 14:  
1845
Nine ...
1800
return


Variant 15:  
1802
Three several marks which with his hoofs the beast
1800
return


Variant 16:  
1820
... verdant ...
1800
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Variant 17:  
1836
... living ...
1800
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Variant 18:  
1827
... gallant brute! ...
1800
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Variant 19:  
1815
And soon the Knight perform'd what he had said,
The fame whereof through many a land did ring.

1800
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Variant 20:  
1820
... journey'd with his paramour;
1800
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Variant 21:  
1815
... to ...
1800
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Variant 22:  
1815
... has ...
1800
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Variant 23:  
1815
... hills ...
1800
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Variant 24:  
1815
From the stone on the summit of the steep
1800
... upon ...
1802
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Variant 25:  
1832
... this ...
1800
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Variant 26:  
1836
... scented ...
1800
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Variant 27:  
1827
But now here's ...
1800
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Variant 28:  
1815
For them the quiet creatures ...
1800
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Footnote A:   Compare Othello, act I. scene iii. l. 135:
'Of moving accidents by flood and field.'
Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  Compare the sonnet (vol. iv.) beginning:
"Beloved Vale!" I said. "when I shall con ...
Ed.
return


Footnote C:   Compare Tennyson, In Memoriam, v. II. 3, 4.
'For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.'
Ed.
return





Note:   This poem was suggested to Wordsworth in December 1799 during the journey with his sister from Sockburn in Yorkshire to Grasmere. I owe the following local note on Hart-Leap Well to Mr. John R. Tutin of Hull.
"June 20, 1881. Visited 'Hart-Leap Well,' the subject of Wordsworth's poem. It is situated on the road side leading from Richmond to Askrigg, at a distance of not more than three and a-half miles from Richmond, and not five miles as stated in the prefatory note to the poem. The 'three aspens at three corners of a square' are things of the past; also the 'three stone pillars standing in a line, on the hill above. In a straight line with the spring of water, and where the pillars would have been, a wall has been built; so that it is very probable the stone pillars were removed at the time of the building of this wall. The scenery around answers exactly to the description
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seemed as if the spring time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.
...
Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade.
"It is barren moor for miles around. The water still falls into the 'cup of stone,' which appeared to be of very long standing. Within ten yards of the well is a small tree, at the same side of the road as the well, on the right hand coming from Richmond."
The Rev. Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton wrote to me on June 18, 1883:
"The tree is not a Thorn, but a Lime. It is evidently an old one, but is now in full and beautiful leaf. It stands on the western side of the road, and a few yards distant from it. The well is somewhat nearer the road. This side of the road is open to the fell. On the other side the road is bounded by a stone wall: another wall meeting this one at right angles, exactly opposite the well. I ascended the hill on the north side of this wall for some distance, but could find no trace of any rough-hewn stone. Descending on the other side, I found in the wall one, and only one, such stone. I should say the base was in the wall. The stone itself leans outwards; so that, at the top, three of its square faces can be seen; and two, if not three, of these faces bear marks of being hammer-dressed. The distance from the stone to the well is about 40 yards, and the height of the stone out of the ground about 3 or 4 feet.

"The ascent from the well is a gentle one, not 'sheer'; nor does there appear to be any hollow by which the shepherd could ascend. On the western side of the road there is a wide plain, with a slight fall in that direction."


"Hart-Leap Well is the tale for me; in matter as good as this (Peter Bell); in manner infinitely before it, in my poor judgment."
Charles Lamb to Wordsworth, May 1819. (See The Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. p. 20.)—Ed.


Contents 1800
Main Contents




The Idle Shepherd-Boys; or, Dungeon-Ghyll ForceA

A Pastoral

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I will only add a little monitory anecdote concerning this subject. When Coleridge and Southey were walking together upon the Fells, Southey observed that, if I wished to be considered a faithful painter of rural manners, I ought not to have said that my shepherd-boys trimmed their rustic hats as described in the poem. Just as the words had passed his lips two boys appeared with the very plant entwined round their hats. I have often wondered that Southey, who rambled so much about the mountains, should have fallen into this mistake, and I record it as a warning for others who, with far less opportunity than my dear friend had of knowing what things are, and far less sagacity, give way to presumptuous criticism, from which he was free, though in this matter mistaken. In describing a tarn under Helvellyn I say:
"There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer."
This was branded by a critic of these days, in a review ascribed to Mrs. Barbauld, as unnatural and absurd. I admire the genius of Mrs. Barbauld and am certain that, had her education been favourable to imaginative influences, no female of her day would have been more likely to sympathise with that image, and to acknowledge the truth of the sentiment.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
The valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play
A never never ending song,
To welcome in the May.
The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;
Or through the glittering vapours dart
In very wantonness of heart.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two boys are sitting in the sun;
Their work, if any work they have,
Is out of mind—or done.
On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim:
And thus, as happy as the day,
Those Shepherds wear the time away.

Along the river's stony marge
The sand-lark chants a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the wood,
And carols loud and strong.
A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
All newly born! both earth and sky
Keep jubilee, and more than all,
Those boys with their green coronal;
They never hear the cry,
That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
"Down to the stump of yon old yew
We'll for our whistles run a race."
—Away the shepherds flew;
They leapt—they ran—and when they came
Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,
Seeing that he should lose the prize,
"Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries—
James stopped with no good will:
Said Walter then, exulting; "Here
You'll find a task for half a year.

"Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross—
Come on, and tread where I shall tread."
The other took him at his word,
And followed as he led.
It was a spot which you may see
If ever you to Langdale go;
Into a chasm a mighty block
Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock:
The gulf is deep below;
And, in a basin black and small,
Receives a lofty waterfall.

With staff in hand across the cleft
The challenger pursued his march;
And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained
The middle of the arch.
When list! he hears a piteous moan—
Again!—his heart within him dies—
His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost,
He totters, pallid as a ghost,
And, looking down, espies
A lamb, that in the pool is pent
Within that black and frightful rent.

The lamb had slipped into the stream,
And safe without a bruise or wound
The cataract had borne him down
Into the gulf profound.
His dam had seen him when he fell,
She saw him down the torrent borne;
And, while with all a mother's love
She from the lofty rocks above
Sent forth a cry forlorn,
The lamb, still swimming round and round,
Made answer to that plaintive sound.

When he had learnt what thing it was,
That sent this rueful cry; I ween
The Boy recovered heart, and told
The sight which he had seen.
Both gladly now deferred their task;
Nor was there wanting other aid—
A Poet, one who loves the brooks
Far better than the sages' books,
By chance had thither strayed;
And there the helpless lamb he found
By those huge rocks encompassed round.

He drew it from the troubled pool,
And brought it forth into the light:
The Shepherds met him with his charge,
An unexpected sight!
Into their arms the lamb they took,
Whose life and limbs the flood had spared;
Then up the steep ascent they hied,
And placed him at his mother's side;
And gently did the Bard
Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,
And bade them better mind their trade.



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Variant 1:  
1800
The valley rings with mirth and joy;
And, pleased to welcome in the May,
From hill to hill the echoes fling
Their liveliest roundelay.



1836
The text of 1845 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 2:  
1836
It seems they have no work to do
Or that their work is done.

1800
Boys that have had no work to do,
Or work that now is done.

1827
return


Variant 3:  
1805
I'll run with you a race."—No more—
1800
We'll for this Whistle run a race." ...
1802
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Variant 4:  
1836
Said Walter then, "Your task is here,
'Twill keep you working half a year.

1800
'Twill baffle you for half a year.
1827
return


Variant 5:  
1836
Till you have cross'd where I shall cross,
Say that you'll neither sleep nor eat."

1800
"Now cross where I shall cross,—come on
And follow me where I shall lead—"

1802
"Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross—
Come on, and in my footsteps tread!"

1827
return


Variant 6:  
1827
James proudly took him at his word,
But did not like the feat.

1800
... the deed.
1802
The other took him at his word,
1805
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Variant 7:  
1827
... began ...
1800
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Variant 8:  
1827
... pale as any ghost,
1800
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Variant 9:  
1827
... he spies
1800
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Variant 10:  
1836
He drew it gently from the pool,
1800
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Variant 11:  
1836
Said they, "He's neither maim'd nor scarr'd"—
1800
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Footnote A:  Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland is a short and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for Waterfall.—W. W. 1800.

"Ghyll" was spelt "Gill" in the editions of 1800 to 1805.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare the Ode, Intimations of Immortality, iv. l. 3 (vol. viii.)—Ed.
return





Note:   The "bridge of rock" across Dungeon-Ghyll "chasm," and the "lofty waterfall," with all its accessories of place as described in the poem, remain as they were in 1800.—Ed.


Contents 1800
Main Contents




The Pet-Lamb

A Pastoral

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Barbara Lewthwaite, now living at Ambleside (1843), though much changed as to beauty, was one of two most lovely sisters. Almost the first words my poor brother John said, when he visited us for the first time at Grasmere, were, "Were those two Angels that I have just seen?" and from his description, I have no doubt they were those two sisters. The mother died in childbed; and one of our neighbours at Grasmere told me that the loveliest sight she had ever seen was that mother as she lay in her coffin with her babe in her arm. I mention this to notice what I cannot but think a salutary custom once universal in these vales. Every attendant on a funeral made it a duty to look at the corpse in the coffin before the lid was closed, which was never done (nor I believe is now) till a minute or two before the corpse was removed. Barbara Lewthwaite was not in fact the child whom I had seen and overheard as described in the poem. I chose the name for reasons implied in the above; and here will add a caution against the use of names of living persons. Within a few months after the publication of this poem, I was much surprised, and more hurt, to find it in a child's school book, which, having been compiled by Lindley Murray, had come into use at Grasmere School where Barbara was a pupil; and, alas! I had the mortification of hearing that she was very vain of being thus distinguished; and, in after life she used to say that she remembered the incident, and what I said to her upon the occasion.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.

Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.
"Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away:
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place
I unobserved could see the workings of her face:
If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing:

"What ails thee, young One? what? Why pull so at thy cord?
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
Rest, little young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

"What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:
This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!

"If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;
For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear,
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

"Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away;
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?
A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.

"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;
My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

"It will not, will not rest!—Poor creature, can it be
That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.

"Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep—and at break of day I will come to thee again!"

—As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
"Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong,
For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own."



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Variant 1:  
1836
No other sheep ...
1800
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Variant 2:  
1836
Towards the Lamb she look'd, and from that shady place
1800
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Variant 3:  
1802
... is ...
1800
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Variant 4:  
1827
... which ...
1800
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Variant 5:  
1802
... are ...
1800
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Variant 6:  
1800
... Poor creature, it must be
That thou hast lost thy mother, and 'tis that which troubles thee.
MS.
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Variant 7:  
1802
... the raven in the sky,
He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by,
Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be,
Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee?"



1800
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Variant 8:  
Italics first used in 1815.
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Variant 9:  
This word (damsel) was italicised from 1813 to 1832.
return


Contents 1800
Main Contents




The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale

Composed 1800.—Published 1815A

The Poem

[The character of this man was described to me, and the incident upon which the verses turn was told me, by Mr. Poole of Nether Stowey, with whom I became acquainted through our common friend, S.T. Coleridge. During my residence at Alfoxden, I used to see much of him, and had frequent occasions to admire the course of his daily life, especially his conduct to his labourers and poor neighbours; their virtues he carefully encouraged, and weighed their faults in the scales of charity. If I seem in these verses to have treated the weaknesses of the farmer and his transgressions too tenderly, it may in part be ascribed to my having received the story from one so averse to all harsh judgment. After his death was found in his escritoir, a lock of grey hair carefully preserved, with a notice that it had been cut from the head of his faithful shepherd, who had served him for a length of years. I need scarcely add that he felt for all men as his brothers. He was much beloved by distinguished persons—Mr. Coleridge, Mr. Southey, Sir H. Davy, and many others; and in his own neighbourhood was highly valued as a magistrate, a man of business, and in every other social relation. The latter part of the poem perhaps requires some apology, as being too much of an echo to The Reverie of Poor Susan.—I. F.]

Included in the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined,
The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind,
And the small critic wielding his delicate pen,
That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.

He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town;
His staff is a sceptre—his grey hairs a crown;
And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak
Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek.

'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,—'mid the joy
Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy;
That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain
That his life hath received, to the last will remain.

A Farmer he was; and his house far and near
Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer:
How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale
Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale!

Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin,
His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing;
And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea,
All caught the infection—as generous as he.

Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,—
The fields better suited the ease of his soul:
He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight,
The quiet of nature was Adam's delight.

For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor,
Familiar with him, made an inn of his door:
He gave them the best that he had; or, to say
What less may mislead you, they took it away.

Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm:
The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm:
At length, what to most is a season of sorrow,
His means are run out,—he must beg, or must borrow.

To the neighbours he went,—all were free with their money;
For his hive had so long been replenished with honey,
That they dreamt not of dearth;—He continued his rounds,
Knocked here-and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.

He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf,
And something, it might be, reserved for himself:
Then (what is too true) without hinting a word,
Turned his back on the country—and off like a bird.

You lift up your eyes!—but I guess that you frame
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame;
In him it was scarcely a business of art,
For this he did all in the ease of his heart.

To London—a sad emigration I ween—
With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green;
And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands,
As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands.

All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume,—
Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom;
But nature is gracious, necessity kind,
And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind,

He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout;
Twice as fast as before does his blood run about;
You would say that each hair of his beard was alive,
And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive.

For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes
About work that he knows, in a track that he knows;
But often his mind is compelled to demur,
And you guess that the more then his body must stir.

In the throng of the town like a stranger is he,
Like one whose own country's far over the sea;
And Nature, while through the great city he hies,
Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise.

This gives him the fancy of one that is young,
More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue;
Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs,
And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes.

What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats?
Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets;
With a look of such earnestness often will stand,
You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.

Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours
Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers,
Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made
Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade.

'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw,
Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw;
With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem,
And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream.

Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way,
Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay;
He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown,
And is happy as if the rich freight were his own.

But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,—
If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there.
The breath of the cows you may see him inhale,
And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale.

Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid,
May one blade of grass spring over thy head;
And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be,
Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree.



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Variant 1:  
1837
Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak
Of the unfaded rose is expressed on his cheek.

1815
... still enlivens his cheek.
1827
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Variant 2:  
1840
There fashion'd that countenance, which, in spite of a stain
1815
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Variant 3:  
date
There's an old man in London, the prime of old men,
You may hunt for his match through ten thousand and ten,
Of prop or of staff, does he walk, does he run,
No more need has he than a flow'r of the sun.



1800
This stanza appeared only in 1800, occupying the place of the three first stanzas in the final text.
return


Variant 4:  
1815
... name ...
1800
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Variant 5:  
1815
Was the Top of the Country, ...
1800
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Variant 6:  
1827
Not less than the skill of an Exchequer Teller
Could count the shoes worn on the steps of his cellar.

1800
How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale
Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his good ale.

1815
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Variant 7:  
1815
... plough'd land, ...
1800
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Variant 8:  
1815
... the noise of the bowl,
1800
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Variant 9:  
On the works of the world, on the bustle and sound,
Seated still in his boat, he look'd leisurely round;
And if now and then he his hands did employ,
'Twas with vanity, wonder, and infantine joy.



Only in the text of 1800.
return


Variant 10:  
1815
... were ...
1800
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Variant 11:  
1815
For they all still imagin'd his hive full of honey;
Like a Church-warden, Adam continu'd his rounds,

1800
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Variant 12:  
1837
... this ...
1800
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Variant 13:  
1815
... he kept to himself;
1800
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Variant 14:  
1820
You lift up your eyes, "O the merciless Jew!"
But in truth he was never more cruel than you;

1800
... —and I guess that you frame
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame;

1815
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Variant 15:  
1815
... scarce e'en ...
1800
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Variant 16:  
Italics first used in 1815.
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Variant 17:  
1815
... lawn ...
1800
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Variant 18:  
1815
He stood all alone like ...
1800
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Variant 19:  
1800
... needs ...
1815
The edition of 1827 returns to the text of 1800.
return


Variant 20:  
1815
Both stable-boy, errand-boy, porter and groom;
You'd think it the life of a Devil in H—l,
But nature was kind, and with Adam 'twas well.


1800
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Variant 21:  
He's ten birth-days younger, he's green, and he's stout,
Twice as fast as before does his blood run about,
You'd think it the life of a Devil in H—l,
But Nature is kind, and with Adam 'twas well.
This stanza appeared only in 1800. It was followed by that which now forms lines 53-56 of the final text.
return

Variant 22:  
1815
He's ten birth-days younger, he's green, and he's stout,
1800
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Variant 23:  
1815
You'd ...
1800
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Variant 24:  
1815
... does ...
1800
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Variant 25:  
1815
... in ...
1800
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Variant 26:  
1800
... have come ...
1815
The text of 1820 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 27:  
1815
...he'll stand
1800
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Variant 28:  
1837
Where proud Covent-Garden, in frost and in snow,
Spreads her fruits and her flow'rs, built up row after row;
Old Adam will point with his finger and say,
To them that stand by, "I've seen better than they."



1800
... her fruit ...
1815
(The text of 1815 is otherwise identical with that of 1837.)
return


Variant 29:  
Where the apples are heap'd on the barrows in piles,
You see him stop short, he looks long, and he smiles;
He looks, and he smiles, and a Poet might spy
The image of fifty green fields in his eye.



Only in the text of 1800.
return


Variant 30:  
1837
... in the waggons, and smells to the hay;
1800
... in the Waggon, and smells at ...
1815
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Variant 31:  
1815
... has mown,
And sometimes he dreams that the hay is his own.

1800
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Variant 32:  
1815
... where'er ...
1800
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Variant 33:  
1850
... spring up o'er ...
1800
... over ...
1815
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Footnote A:   i. e. first published in the 1815 edition of the Poems: but, although dated by Wordsworth 1803, it had appeared in The Morning Post of July 21, 1800, under the title, The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale. A Character. It was then unsigned.—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   With this picture, which was taken from real life, compare the imaginative one of The Reverie of Poor Susan [vol. i. p. 226]; and see (to make up the deficiencies of this class) The Excursion, passim.—W. W. 1837.


Contents 1800
Main Contents






1799 end of Volume II: 1800 Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents






Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: Poems on the Naming of Places



Edited by William Knight

1896



Table of Contents






Poems on the Naming of Places

Advertisement:

By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents or renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequenceA.—W. W. 1800.





Footnote A:   It should be explained that owing to the chronological plan adopted in this edition (see the preface to vol. i.), two of the poems which were placed by Wordsworth in his series of "Poems on the Naming of Places," but which belong to later years, are printed in subsequent volumes.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




"It was an April morning: fresh and clear"

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

[Written at Grasmere. This poem was suggested on the banks of the brook that runs through Easdale, which is, in some parts of its course, as wild and beautiful as brook can be. I have composed thousands of verses by the side of it.—I. F.]





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
It was an April morning: fresh and clear
The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice
Of waters which the winter had supplied
Was softened down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
And hopes and wishes, from all living things
Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
The steps of June; as if their various hues
Were only hindrances that stood between
Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
Such an entire contentment in the air
That every naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance
With which it looked on this delightful day
Were native to the summer.—Up the brook
I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice
Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,
Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth
Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;
But 'twas the foliage of the rocks—the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
And, on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
"Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
My Emma, I will dedicate to thee."
—Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
May call it by the name of Emma's Dell.



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Variant 1:  
1845
The budding groves appear'd as if in haste
To spur the steps of June; as if their shades
Of various green were hindrances that stood
Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile,
There was such deep contentment in the air




1800
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Variant 2:  
1845
... seem'd as though ...
1800
return





Note:   The text of the "Poems on the Naming of Places" underwent comparatively little alteration in successive editions. Both the changes in the first poem were made in 1845. From the Fenwick note, it is evident that "the Rivulet" was Easdale beck. But where was "Emma's Dell"? In the autumn of 1877, Dr. Cradock, the Principal of Brasenose College, Oxford, took me to a place, of which he afterwards wrote,
"I have a fancy for a spot just beyond Goody Bridge to the left, where the brook makes a curve, and returns to the road two hundred yards farther on. But I have not discovered a trace of authority in favour of the idea farther than that the wooded bend of the brook with the stepping stones across it, connected with a field-path recently stopped, was a very favourite haunt of Wordsworth's. At the upper part of this bend, near to the place where the brook returns to the road, is a deep pool at the foot of a rush of water. In this pool, a man named Wilson was drowned many years ago. He lived at a house on the hill called Score Crag, which, if my conjecture as to Emma's Dell is right, is the 'single mountain cottage' on a 'summit, distant a short space.' Wordsworth, happening to be walking at no great distance, heard a loud shriek. It was that of Mr. Wilson, the father, who had just discovered his son's body in the beck."
In the "Reminiscences" of the poet, by the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge, which were contributed to the Memoirs of Wordsworth, written by his nephew (vol. ii. pp. 300-315), there is a record of a walk they took up Easdale to this place, entering the field just at the spot which Dr. Cradock supposes to be "Emma's Dell."
"He turned aside at a little farm-house, and took us into a swelling field to look down on the tumbling stream which bounded it, and which we saw precipitated at a distance, in a broad white sheet, from the mountain." (This refers to Easdale Force.) "Then, as he mused for an instant, he said,
'I have often thought what a solemn thing it would be could we have brought to our mind at once all the scenes of distress and misery which any spot, however beautiful and calm before us, has been witness to since the beginning. That water break, with the glassy quiet pool beneath it, that looks so lovely, and presents no images to the mind but of peace—there, I remember, the only son of his father, a poor man who lived yonder, was drowned.'"
This walk and conversation took place in October 1836. If any one is surprised that Wordsworth, supposing him to have been then looking into the very dell on which he wrote the above poem in 1800, did not name it to Mr. Coleridge, he must remember that he was not in the habit of speaking of the places he had memorialised in verse, and that in 1836 his "Sister Emmeline" had for a year been a confirmed invalid at Rydal. I have repeatedly followed Easdale beck all the way up from its junction with the Rothay to the Tarn, and found no spot corresponding so closely to the realistic detail of this poem as the one suggested by Dr. Cradock. There are two places further up the dale where the "sallies of glad sound" such as are referred to in the poem, are even more distinctly audible; but they are not at "a sudden turning," as is the spot above Goody Bridge. If one leaves the Easdale road at this bridge, and keeps to the side of the beck for a few hundred yards, till he reaches the turning, —especially if it be a bright April morning, such as that described in the poem,—and remembers that this path by the brook was a favourite resort of Wordsworth and his sister, the probability of Dr. Cradock's suggestion will be apparent. Lady Richardson, who knew the place, and appreciated the poem as thoroughly as any of Wordsworth's friends, told me that she concurred in this identification of the "dell."—Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




To Joanna

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

[Written at Grasmere. The effect of her laugh is an extravagance, though the effect of the reverberation of voices in some parts of the mountains is very striking. There is, in The Excursion, an allusion to the bleat of a lamb thus re-echoed, and described without any exaggeration, as I heard it, on the side of Stickle Tarn, from the precipice that stretches on to Langdale Pikes.—I. F.]





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
The time of early youth; and there you learned,
From years of quiet industry, to love
The living Beings by your own fire-side,
With such a strong devotion, that your heart
Is slow to meet the sympathies of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind,
Dwelling retired in our simplicity
Among the woods and fields, we love you well,
Joanna! and I guess, since you have been
So distant from us now for two long years,
That you will gladly listen to discourse,
However trivial, if you thence be taught
That they, with whom you once were happy, talk
Familiarly of you and of old times.

While I was seated, now some ten days past,
Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower,
The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by
Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked,
"How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!
And when will she return to us?" he paused;
And, after short exchange of village news,
He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,
Reviving obsolete idolatry,
I, like a Runic Priest, in characters
Of formidable size had chiselled out
Some uncouth name upon the native rock,
Above the Rotha, by the forest-side.
—Now, by those dear immunities of heart
Engendered between malice and true love,
I was not loth to be so catechised,
And this was my reply:—"As it befel,
One summer morning we had walked abroad
At break of day, Joanna and myself.
—'Twas that delightful season when the broom,
Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,
Along the copses runs in veins of gold.
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks;
And when we came in front of that tall rock
That eastward looks, I there stopped short—and stood
Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye
From base to summit; such delight I found
To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower
That intermixture of delicious hues,
Along so vast a surface, all at once,
In one impression, by connecting force
Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.
—When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.
The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,
Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again;
That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar,
And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the Lady's voice,—old Skiddaw blew
His speaking-trumpet;—back out of the clouds
Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.
—Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend,
Who in the hey-day of astonishment
Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth
A work accomplished by the brotherhood
Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched
With dreams and visionary impulses
To me alone imparted, sure I am
That there was a loud uproar in the hills.
And, while we both were listening, to my side
The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
To shelter from some object of her fear.
—And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons
Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone
Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm
And silent morning, I sat down, and there,
In memory of affections old and true,
I chiselled out in those rude characters
Joanna's name deep in the living stone:—
And I, and all who dwell by my fireside,
Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock."



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Variant 1:  
1827
Your time ...
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1836
Is slow towards...
1800
... toward....
1827
return


Variant 3:  
1836
... are taught...
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1836
... betwixt ...
1800
return


Variant 5:  
1836
Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short,
1800
... toward ...
1827
return


Variant 6:  
1836
And trac'd ...
1800
return


Variant 7:  
1827
Is not for me to tell; but sure I am
1800
return


Variant 8:  
1845
Joanna's name upon the living stone.
1800
return





Footnote A:   The Rectory at Grasmere, where Wordsworth lived from 1811 to 1813, and where two of his children died.—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.

The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydale falls into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cluster.—W. W. 1800.

Most of the Mountains here mentioned immediately surround the vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster.— W. W. 1802.

The majority of the changes introduced into the text of this poem were made in the year 1836.

The place where the echo of the bleat of the lamb was heard —referred to in the Fenwick note—may be easily found. The "precipice" is Pavy Ark. "The 'lofty firs, that overtop their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower,' stood by the roadside, scarcely twenty yards north-west from the steeple of Grasmere church. Their site is now included in the road, which has been widened at that point. They were Scotch firs of unusual size, and might justly be said to 'overtop their neighbour' the tower. Mr. Fleming Green, who well remembers the trees, gave me this information, which is confirmed by other inhabitants.
"When the road was enlarged, not many years ago, the roots of the trees were found by the workmen."
(Dr. Cradock to the editor.) The
'tall rock
That eastward looks'
by the banks of the Rotha, presenting a "lofty barrier" "from base to summit," is manifestly a portion of Helmcrag. It is impossible to know whether Wordsworth carved Joanna Hutchinson's name anywhere on Helmcrag, and it is useless to enquire. If he did so, the discovery of the place would not help any one to understand or appreciate the poem. It is obvious that he did not intend to be literally exact in details, as the poem was written in 1800, and addressed to Joanna Hutchinson,—who is spoken of as having been absent from Grasmere "for two long years;" and Wordsworth says that he carved the Runic characters in memoriam eighteen months after that summer morning when he heard the echo of her laugh. But the family took up residence at Grasmere only in December 1799, and the "Poems on the Naming of Places" were published before the close of 1800. The effect of these lines to Joanna, however, is certainly not impaired—it may even be enhanced—by our inability to localise them. Only one in the list of places referred to can occasion any perplexity, viz., Hammar-scar, since it is a name now disused in the district. It used to be applied to some rocks on the flank of Silver-how, to the wood around them, and also to the gorge between Silver-how and Loughrigg. Hammar, from the old Norse hamar, signifies a steep broken rock.

The imaginative description of the echo of the lady's laugh suggests a parallel passage from Michael Drayton's Polyolbion, which Wordsworth must doubtless have read. (See his sister's reference to Drayton in her Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, in 1803: in the note to the poem, At the grave of Burns, p. 382 of this volume.)
Which Copland scarce had spoke, but quickly every Hill
Upon her verge that stands, the neighbouring valleys fill;
Helvillon from his height, it through the mountains threw,
From whence as soon again, the sound Dunbalrase drew,
From whose stone-trophèd head, it on the Wendrosse went,
Which tow'rds the sea again, resounded it to Dent,
That Brodwater therewith within her banks astound,
In sailing to the sea, told it to Egremound,
Whose buildings, walks, and streets, with echoes loud and long,
Did mightily commend old Copland for her song.
Polyolbion, The Thirtieth Song, ll. 155-164. Any one who compares this passage with Wordsworth's Joanna will see the difference between the elaborate fancy of a topographical narrator, and the vivid imagination of a poetical idealist. A somewhat similar instance of indebtedness—in which the debt is repaid by additional insight—is seen when we compare a passage from Sir John Davies's Orchestra, or a poem on Dancing (stanza 49), with one from The Ancient Mariner, Part VI. stanzas 2 and 3—although there was more of the true imaginative light in Davies than in Drayton.
For lo, the sea that fleets about the land,
And like a girdle clips her solid waist,
Music and measure both doth understand;
For his great crystal eye is always cast
Up to the moon, and on her fixed fast:
And as she danceth in her palid sphere
So danceth he about his centre here.
Davies.
Still as a slave before his lord,
The ocean hath no blast;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.
Coleridge.


These extracts show how both Wordsworth and Coleridge assimilated past literary products, and how they glorified them by reproduction. There was little, however, in the poetic imagery of previous centuries that Wordsworth reproduced. His imagination worked in a sphere of its own, free from the trammels of precedent; and he was more original than any other nineteenth century poet in his use of symbol and metaphor. The poem To Joanna was probably composed on August 22, 1800, as the following occurs in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal under that date:
"William was composing all the morning ... W. read us the poem of Joanna, beside the Rothay, by the roadside."
Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in January 1801, of
"these continuous echoes in the story of 'Joanna's laugh,' when the mountains and all the scenery seem absolutely alive."
Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




"There is an Eminence,—of these our hills"

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

[It is not accurate that the Eminence here alluded to could be seen from our orchard-seat. It rises above the road by the side of Grasmere Lake towards Keswick, and its name is Stone-Arthur.—I. F.]





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
There is an Eminence,—of these our hills
The last that parleys with the setting sun;
We can behold it from our orchard-seat;
And, when at evening we pursue our walk
Along the public way, this Peak, so high
Above us, and so distant in its height,
Is visible; and often seems to send
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.
The meteors make of it a favourite haunt:
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large
In the mid heavens, is never half so fair
As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth
The loneliest place we have among the clouds.
And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved
With such communion, that no place on earth
Can ever be a solitude to me,
Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.



Note
Contents




1











2




5




10




15







Variant 1:  
1840
... this Cliff, ...
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1815
Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.
1800
return





Note:   Stone-Arthur is the name of the hill, on the east side of the Vale of Grasmere, opposite Helm Crag, and between Green Head Ghyll and Tongue Ghyll.—Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




"A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags"

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

[The character of the eastern shore of Grasmere Lake is quite changed since these verses were written, by the public road being carried along its side. The friends spoken of were Coleridge and my Sister, and the facts occurred strictly as recorded.—I. F.]





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
A rude and natural causeway, interposed
Between the water and a winding slope
Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy:
And there myself and two belovèd Friends,
One calm September morning, ere the mist
Had altogether yielded to the sun,
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.
—Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we
Played with our time; and, as we strolled along,
It was our occupation to observe
Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore—
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,
Each on the other heaped, along the line
Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood,
Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,
Suddenly halting now—a lifeless stand!
And starting off again with freak as sudden;
In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,
Making report of an invisible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul.
—And often, trifling with a privilege
Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,
And now the other, to point out, perchance
To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair
Either to be divided from the place
On which it grew, or to be left alone
To its own beauty. Many such there are,
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern,
So stately, of the queen Osmunda named;
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode
On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
—So fared we that bright morning: from the fields,
Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth
Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced
Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen
Before us, on a point of jutting land,
The tall and upright figure of a Man
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
"Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed,
"The Man must be, who thus can lose a day
Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire
Is ample, and some little might be stored
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time."
Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached
Close to the spot where with his rod and line
He stood alone; whereat he turned his head
To greet us—and we saw a Man worn down
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean
That for my single self I looked at them,
Forgetful of the body they sustained.—
Too weak to labour in the harvest field,
The Man was using his best skill to gain
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
That knew not of his wants. I will not say
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
With all its lovely images, was changed
To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserved in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with charity.
—Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
My Friend, Myself, and She who then received
The same admonishment, have called the place
By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
As e'er by mariner was given to bay
Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And Point Rash-Judgment is the name it bears.



Note
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1



2







3





4


5
6

7



8

9





A




5




10




15




20




25




30




35




40




45




50




55




60




65




70




75




80






Variant 1:  
1815. (Compressing five lines into three.)
... thistle's beard,
Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'd
By some internal feeling, skimm'd along
Close to the surface of the lake that lay
Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on
Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there,





1800
return


Variant 2:  
1820
Its very playmate, and its moving soul.
1800
return


Variant 3:  
1802
... tall plant ...
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1827
... sweet ...
1800
return


Variant 5:  
1800
... with listening ...
C.
return


Variant 6:  
1820
And in the fashion which I have describ'd,
Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc'd

1800
return


Variant 7:  
1827
... we saw
1800
return


Variant 8:  
1800
... a lake.
1802
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 9:  
1827
... the margin of the lake.
That way we turn'd our steps; nor was it long,
Ere making ready comments on the sight
Which then we saw, with one and the same voice
We all cried out, that he must be indeed
An idle man, who thus could lose a day





1800
Did all cry out, that he must be indeed
An Idler, he who thus ...

1815
return





Footnote A:   A new road has destroyed this retirement. (MS. footnote in Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836.)—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   The text of this poem reached its final state in the edition of 1827. The same is true of the poem which follows, To M. H., with the exception of a single change.

In Wordsworth's early days at Grasmere, a wild woodland path of quiet beauty led from Dove Cottage along the margin of the lake to the "Point" referred to in this poem, leaving the eastern shore truly "safe in its own privacy"—a "retired and difficult way"; the high-way road for carriages being at that time over White Moss Common. The late Dr. Arnold, of Rugby and Foxhowe, used to name the three roads from Rydal to Grasmere thus: the highest, "Old Corruption"; the intermediate, "Bit by bit Reform"; the lowest and most level, "Radical Reform." Wordsworth was never quite reconciled to the radical reform effected on a road that used to be so delightfully wild and picturesque. The spot which the three friends rather infelicitously named "Point Rash-Judgment" is easily identified; although, as Wordsworth remarks, the character of the shore is changed by the public road being carried along its side. The friends were quite aware that the "memorial name" they gave it was "uncouth." In spite of its awkwardness, however, it will probably survive; if not for Browning's reason
The better the uncouther;
Do roses stick like burrs?
at least because of the incident which gave rise to the poem. The date of composition is fixed by Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal,
"10th Oct. 1800, Wm. sat up after me, writing Point Rash-Judgment."
Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




To M. H.

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

[To Mary Hutchinson, two years before our marriage. The pool alluded to is in Rydal Upper Park.—I. F.]





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Our walk was far among the ancient trees:
There was no road, nor any woodman's path;
But a thick umbrage—checking the wild growth
Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf
Beneath the branches—of itself had made
A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink
On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand
Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun,
Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
But as a blessing to this calm recess,
This glade of water and this one green field.
The spot was made by Nature for herself;
The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
Unknown to them; but it is beautiful;
And if a man should plant his cottage near,
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
And blend its waters with his daily meal,
He would so love it, that in his death-hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts:
And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still Nook,
With all its beeches, we have named from You!



Note
Contents


1
2

3

















4




5




10




15




20









Variant 1:  
1836
But the ...
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1827
... on the soft green turf
1800
... smooth dry ground
MS.
return


Variant 3:  
1827
... which ...
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1800
... for You.
1802
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return





Note:   To find the pool referred to in the Fenwick note, I have carefully examined the course of Rydal beck, all the way up to the foot of the Fell. There is a pool beyond the enclosures of the Hall property, about five hundred feet above Rydal Mount, which partly corresponds to the description in the poem, but there is no wood around it now; and the trees which skirt its margin are birch, ash, oak, and hazel, but there are no beeches. It is a short way below some fine specimens of ice-worn rocks, which are to the right of the stream as you ascend it, and above these rocks is a well-marked moraine. It is a deep crystal pool, and has a "firm margin" of (artificially placed) stones. This may be the spot described in the poem; or another, within the grounds of the Hall, may be the place referred to. It is a sequestered nook, beside the third waterfall as you ascend the beck—this third cascade being itself a treble fall. Seen two or three days after rain, when the stream is full enough to break over the whole face of the rock in showers of snowy brightness, yet low enough to shew the rock behind its transparent veil, it is specially beautiful. Trees change so much in eighty years that the absence of "beeches" now would not make this site impossible. In a MS. copy of the poem (of date Dec. 28, 1800), the last line is
'With all its poplars, we have named from you.'
Of the circular pool beneath this fall it may be said, as Wordsworth describes it, that
'... both flocks and herds might drink
On its firm margin, even as from a well;'
and a "small slip of lawn" might easily have existed there in his time. We cannot, however, be confident as to the locality, and I add the opinion of several, whose judgment may be deferred to. Dr. Cradock writes:
"As to Mary Hutchinson's pool, I think that it was not on the beck anywhere, but some detached little pool, far up the hill, to the eastwards of the Hall, in 'the woods.' The description does not well suit any part of Rydal beck; and no spot thereon could long 'remain unknown,' as the brook was until lately much haunted by anglers."
My difficulty as to a site "far up the hill" is, that it must have been a pool of some size, if "both flocks and herds might drink" all round it; and there is no stream, scarce even a rill that joins Rydal beck on the right, all the way up from its junction with the Rothay. The late Mr. Hull of Rydal Cottage, wrote:
"Although closely acquainted with every nook about Rydal Park, I have never been able to discover any spot corresponding to that described in Wordsworth's lines to M. H. It is possible, however, that the 'small bed of water' may have been a temporary rain pool, such as sometimes lodges in the hollows on the mountain-slope after heavy rain."
Mr. F. M. Jones, the agent of the Rydal property, writes:
"I do not know of any pool of water in the Upper Rydal Park. There are some pools up the river, 'Mirror Pool' among them; but I hardly think there can ever have been 'beech-trees' growing near them."
There are many difficulties, and the place cannot now be identified. Wordsworth's own wish will doubtless be realised,
'The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
Unknown to them.'
Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




The Waterfall and the Eglantine

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

[Suggested nearer to Grasmere, in the same mountain track as that referred to in the following note. The Eglantine remained many years afterwards, but is now gone.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.





The Poem


stanza text variant footnote line number
I "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,"
Exclaimed an angry Voice,
"Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice!"
A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows
Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,
And dancing high and dancing low,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.

1



2







5




10
II "Dost thou presume my course to block?
Off, off! or, puny Thing!
I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
To which thy fibres cling."
The Flood was tyrannous and strong;
The patient Briar suffered long,
Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
Hoping the danger would be past;
But, seeing no relief, at last,
He ventured to reply.




A








15




20
III "Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not;
Why should we dwell in strife?
We who in this sequestered spot
Once lived a happy life!
You stirred me on my rocky bed—
What pleasure through my veins you spread
The summer long, from day to day,
My leaves you freshened and bedewed;
Nor was it common gratitude
That did your cares repay.


3










25




30
IV "When spring came on with bud and bell,
Among these rocks did I
Before you hang my wreaths to tell
That gentle days were nigh!
And in the sultry summer hours,
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
And in my leaves—now shed and gone,
The linnet lodged, and for us two
Chanted his pretty songs, when you
Had little voice or none.


4






B












35




40
V "But now proud thoughts are in your breast—
What grief is mine you see,
Ah! would you think, even yet how blest
Together we might be!
Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
Some ornaments to me are left—
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
With which I, in my humble way,
Would deck you many a winter day,
A happy Eglantine!"








5




45




50
VI What more he said I cannot tell,
The Torrent down the rocky dell
Came thundering loud and fast;
I listened, nor aught else could hear;
The Briar quaked—and much I fear
Those accents were his last.



Note
Contents


6






55






Variant 1:  
1836
... a thundering Voice,
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1820
A falling Water swoln with snows
Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,

1800
return


Variant 3:  
1820
... in this, our natal spot,
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1815
... wreath ...
1800
return


Variant 5:  
1836
... Winter's day,
1800
return


Variant 6:  
1840
The stream came thundering down the dell
And gallop'd loud and fast;

1800
The Torrent thundered down the dell
With unabating haste;

1815
With aggravated haste;
1827
The Stream came thundering down the dell
1836
return





Footnote A:  Compare The Ancient Mariner (part I. stanza II.):
And now the Storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong.
Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare A Farewell, p. 325, l. 17.—Ed.
return





Note:   The spot referred to in this poem can be identified with perfect accuracy. The Eglantine grew on the little brook that runs past two cottages (close to the path under Nab Scar), which have been built since the poet's time, and are marked Brockstone on the Ordnance Map.
"The plant itself of course has long disappeared: but in following up the rill through the copse, above the cottages, I found an unusually large Eglantine, growing by the side of the stream."
(Dr Cradock to the editor, in 1877.) It still grows luxuriantly there.

The following extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal illustrates both this and the next poem:
"Friday, 23rd April 1802.—It being a beautiful morning, we set off at eleven o'clock, intending to stay out of doors all the morning. We went towards Rydal, under Nab Scar. The sun shone and we were lazy. Coleridge pitched upon several places to sit down upon; but we could not be all of one mind respecting sun and shade, so we pushed on to the foot of the Scar. It was very grand when we looked up, very stony; here and there a budding tree. William observed that the umbrella Yew-tree that breasts the wind had lost its character as a tree, and had become like solid wood. Coleridge and I pushed on before. We left William sitting on the stones, feasting with silence, and I sat down upon a rocky seat, a couch it might be, under the Bower of William's 'Eglantine,' 'Andrew's Broom.' He was below us, and we could see him. He came to us, and repeated his Poems, while we sat beside him. We lingered long, looking into the vales; Ambleside Vale, with the copses, the village under the hill, and the green fields; Rydale, with a lake all alive and glittering, yet but little stirred by breezes; and our own dear Grasmere, making a little round lake of Nature's own, with never a house, never a green field, but the copses and the bare hills enclosing it, and the river flowing out of it. Above rose the Coniston Fells, in their own shape and colour, ... the sky, and the clouds, and a few wild creatures. Coleridge went to search for something new. We saw him climbing up towards a rock. He called us, and we found him in a bower,—the sweetest that was ever seen. The rock on one side is very high, and all covered with ivy, which hung loosely about, and bore bunches of brown berries. On the other side, it was higher than my head. We looked down on the Ambleside vale, that seemed to wind away from us, the village lying under the hill. The fir tree island was reflected beautifully.... About this bower there is mountain-ash, common ash, yew tree, ivy, holly, hawthorn, roses, flowers, and a carpet of moss. Above at the top of the rock there is another spot. It is scarce a bower, a little parlour, not enclosed by walls, but shaped out for a resting-place by the rocks, and the ground rising about it. It had a sweet moss carpet. We resolved to go and plant flowers, in both these places to-morrow."
This extract is taken from the "Journal" as originally transcribed by me in 1889. When it appears in this edition it will be greatly enlarged.—Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




The Oak and the Broom

A Pastoral

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Suggested upon the mountain pathway that leads from Upper Rydal to Grasmere. The ponderous block of stone, which is mentioned in the poem, remains, I believe, to this day, a good way up Nab-Scar. Broom grows under it, and in many places on the side of the precipice.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.





The Poem


stanza text variant footnote line number
I His simple truths did Andrew glean
Beside the babbling rills;
A careful student he had been
Among the woods and hills.
One winter's night, when through the trees
The wind was roaring, on his knees
His youngest born did Andrew hold:
And while the rest, a ruddy quire,
Were seated round their blazing fire,
This Tale the Shepherd told.





1







5




10
II "I saw a crag, a lofty stone
As ever tempest beat!
Out of its head an Oak had grown,
A Broom out of its feet.
The time was March, a cheerful noon—
The thaw wind, with the breath of June,
Breathed gently from the warm south-west:
When, in a voice sedate with age,
This Oak, a giant and a sage,
His neighbour thus addressed:—








2




15




20
III "'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay,
Along this mountain's edge,
The Frost hath wrought both night and day,
Wedge driving after wedge.
Look up! and think, above your head
What trouble, surely, will be bred;
Last night I heard a crash—'tis true,
The splinters took another road—
I see them yonder—what a load
For such a Thing as you!




25




30
IV "'You are preparing as before
To deck your slender shape;
And yet, just three years back—no more—
You had a strange escape:
Down from yon cliff a fragment broke;
It thundered down, with fire and smoke,
And hitherward pursued its way;
This ponderous block was caught by me,
And o'er your head, as you may see,
'Tis hanging to this day!






3






35




40
V "'If breeze or bird to this rough steep
Your kind's first seed did bear;
The breeze had better been asleep,
The bird caught in a snare:
For you and your green twigs decoy
The little witless shepherd-boy
To come and slumber in your bower;
And, trust me, on some sultry noon,
Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
Will perish in one hour.



4









45




50
VI "'From me this friendly warning take'—
The Broom began to doze,
And thus, to keep herself awake,
Did gently interpose:
'My thanks for your discourse are due;
That more than what you say is true,
I know, and I have known it long;
Frail is the bond by which we hold
Our being, whether young or old,
Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.





5


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VII "'Disasters, do the best we can,
Will reach both great and small;
And he is oft the wisest man,
Who is not wise at all.
For me, why should I wish to roam?
This spot is my paternal home,
It is my pleasant heritage;
My father many a happy year,
Spread here his careless blossoms, here
Attained a good old age.








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VIII "'Even such as his may be my lot.
What cause have I to haunt
My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favoured plant!
On me such bounty Summer pours,
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the Frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
This Plant can never die.





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IX "'The butterfly, all green and gold,
To me hath often flown,
Here in my blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own.
When grass is chill with rain or dew,
Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe
Lies with her infant lamb; I see
The love they to each other make,
And the sweet joy which they partake,
It is a joy to me.'




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X "Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;
The Broom might have pursued
Her speech, until the stars of night
Their journey had renewed;
But in the branches of the oak
Two ravens now began to croak
Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
And to her own green bower the breeze
That instant brought two stripling bees
To rest, or murmur there.









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XI "One night, my Children! from the north
There came a furious blast;
At break of day I ventured forth,
And near the cliff I passed.
The storm had fallen upon the Oak,
And struck him with a mighty stroke,
And whirled, and whirled him far away;
And, in one hospitable cleft,
The little careless Broom was left
To live for many a day."



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Variant 1:  
1820
... thundering, ...
1800
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Variant 2:  
1815
... half giant and half sage,
1800
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Variant 3:  
1820
It came, you know, with fire and smoke
And hither did it bend its way.

1800
And hitherward it bent its way.
1802
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Variant 4:  
1836
The Thing had better been asleep,
Whatever thing it were,
Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep,
That first did plant you there.



1800
Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep,
1802
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Variant 5:  
1820
That it is true, and more than true,
1800
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Variant 6:  
1827
... be we young or old,
1800
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Variant 7:  
1836
Here spread ...
1800
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Variant 8:  
1815
The Spring for me a garland weaves
Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves,

1800
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Variant 9:  
1802
... on me ...
1800
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Variant 10:  
1827
To feed and ...
1800
To rest and ...
1815
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Variant 11:  
1815
One night the Wind came from the North
And blew a furious blast,

1800
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Note:   The spot is fixed within narrow limits by the Fenwick note. It is, beyond doubt, on the wooded part of Nab-Scar, through which the upper path from Grasmere to Rydal passes. There is one huge block of stone high above the path, which answers well to the description in the second stanza. Crabb Robinson wrote in his Diary (Sept. 11, 1816):
"The poem of The Oak and the Broom proceeded from his" (Wordsworth) "beholding a tree in just such a situation as he described the broom to be in."
Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
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"'Tis said, that some have died for love"

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
'Tis said, that some have died for love:
And here and there a church-yard grave is found
In the cold north's unhallowed ground,
Because the wretched man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.
And there is one whom I five years have known;
He dwells alone
Upon Helvellyn's side:
He loved—the pretty Barbara died;
And thus he makes his moan:
Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
When thus his moan he made:

"Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak!
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
That in some other way yon smoke
May mount into the sky!
The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart:
I look—the sky is empty space;
I know not what I trace;
But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.

"O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,
That murmur once so dear, when will it cease?
Your sound my heart of rest bereaves,
It robs my heart of peace.
Thou Thrush, that singest loud—and loud and free,
Into yon row of willows flit,
Upon that alder sit;
Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

"Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds,
And there for ever be thy waters chained!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
That cannot be sustained;
If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,
Oh let it then be dumb!
Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.

"Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers,
Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale,
Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
And stir not in the gale.
For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,—
Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear."

The Man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.



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1836
... Ye leaves,
When will that dying murmur be suppress'd?
Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,
It robs my heart of rest.



1800
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Variant 2:  
1800
... yon ...
MS.
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Variant 3:  
1836
Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers
(Even like a rainbow ...

1800
... the rainbow ...
1802
The text of 1815 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 4:  
1836
... or ...
1800
return





Note:   If the second, third, and fourth stanzas of this poem had been published without the first, the fifth, and the last, it would have been deemed an exquisite fragment by those who object to the explanatory preamble, and to the moralising sequel. The intermediate stanzas suggest Burns's
'Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
An' I sae weary, fu' o' care!'
and Browning's May and Death:
'I wish that when you died last May,
Charles, there had died along with you
Three parts of spring's delightful things;
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.'
This mood of mind Wordsworth appreciated as fully as the opposite, or complementary one, which finds expression in the great Ode, Intimations of Immortality (vol. viii.), l. 26.
'No more shall grief of mine the season wrong,'
and which Browning expresses in other verses of his lyric, and repeatedly elsewhere. The allusion in the last stanza of this poem is to Wordsworth's sister Dorothy.—Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




The Childless Father

Composed 1800.-Published 1800A

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. When I was a child at Cockermouth, no funeral took place without a basin filled with sprigs of boxwood being placed upon a table covered with a white cloth in front of the house. The huntings on foot, in which the old man is supposed to join as here described, were of common, almost habitual, occurrence in our vales when I was a boy, and the people took much delight in them. They are now less frequent.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."

—Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past;
One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away!
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;
"The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead."
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak;
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.



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The basin of box-wood, just six months before,
Had stood on the table at Timothy's door,

1800
The basin had offered, just six months before,
Fresh sprigs of green box-wood at Timothy's door;

1820
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Footnote A:  Also in The Morning Post, Jan. 30, 1801.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.—W. W. 1800.
return


Footnote C:  In the list of errata, in the edition of 1820 "one child" is corrected, and made "a child"; but the text remained "one child" in all subsequent editions.—Ed.
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Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




Song for the Wandering Jew

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

Included among the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Though the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.

Clouds that love through air to hasten,
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.

What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground:

And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
Yield him no domestic cave,
Slumbers without sense of motion,
Couched upon the rocking wave.

If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less she loves her haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

The fleet Ostrich, till day closes,
Vagrant over desert sands,
Brooding on her eggs reposes
When chill night that care demands.

Day and night my toils redouble,
Never nearer to the goal;
Night and day, I feel the trouble
Of the Wanderer in my soul.



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Variant 1:  
This stanza was added in the edition of 1827.
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Variant 2:  
1827
Though almost with eagle pinion
O'er the rocks the Chamois roam,
Yet he has some small dominion
Which no doubt he calls his home.



1800
Though, as if with eagle pinion
O'er the rocks the Chamois roam,
Yet he has some small dominion
Where he feels himself at home.



1815
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Variant 3:  
1836
Though the Sea-horse in the ocean
Own no dear domestic cave;
Yet he slumbers without motion
On the calm and silent wave.



1800
Yet he slumbers—by the motion
Rocked of many a gentle wave.

1827
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Variant 4:  
1827
... he loves his haven
1800
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Variant 5:  
1815
On ...
1800
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Variant 6:  
This stanza was added in 1827.
return


Variant 7:  
1800
Never—never does the trouble
Of the Wanderer leave my soul.

1815
The text of 1827 returns to that of 1800.
return





Footnote A:   In the editions of 1800 to 1832 stanzas 4 and 5 were transposed. Their present order was adjusted in the edition of 1836.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




The BrothersA

Composed 1800.B—Published 1800

The Poem

[This poem was composed in a grove at the north-eastern end of Grasmere lake, which grove was in a great measure destroyed by turning the high road along the side of the water. The few trees that are left were spared at my intercession. The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd had fallen asleep upon the top of the rock called the Pillar, and perished as here described, his staff being left midway on the rock.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.





The Poem


speaker text variant footnote line number
These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live
A profitable life: some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name—only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves."

        To Jane, his wife,
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
It was a July evening; and he sate
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
Of his old cottage,—as it chanced, that day,
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone
His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,
He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
Who, in the open air, with due accord
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps,
Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder: and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snow white ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other locked; and, down the path
That from his cottage to the church-yard led,
He took his way, impatient to accost
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

'Twas one well known to him in former days,
A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters; with the mariners
A fellow-mariner;—and so had fared
Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared
Among the mountains, and he in his heart
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
Of caves and trees:—and, when the regular wind
Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,
Lengthening invisibly its weary line
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam
Flashed round him images and hues that wrought
In union with the employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed
On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees,
And shepherds clad in the same country grey
Which he himself had worn.

        And now, at last,
From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,
To his paternal home he is returned,
With a determined purpose to resume
The life he had lived there; both for the sake
Of many darling pleasures, and the love
Which to an only brother he has borne
In all his hardships, since that happy time
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
Were brother-shepherds on their native hills.
—They were the last of all their race: and now,
When Leonard had approached his home, his heart
Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved,
He to the solitary church-yard turned;
That, as he knew in what particular spot
His family were laid, he thence might learn
If still his Brother lived, or to the file
Another grave was added.—He had found
Another grave,—near which a full half-hour
He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew
Such a confusion in his memory,
That he began to doubt; and even to hope
That he had seen this heap of turf before,—
That it was not another grave; but one
He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked
Through fields which once had been well known to him:
And oh what joy this recollection now
Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,
And, looking round, imagined that he saw
Strange alteration wrought on every side
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,
And everlasting hills themselves were changed.

By this the Priest, who down the field had come,
Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate
Stopped short,—and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
Perused him with a gay complacency.
Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,
'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path
Of the world's business to go wild alone:
His arms have a perpetual holiday;
The happy man will creep about the fields,
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles
Into his face, until the setting sun
Write fool upon his forehead.—Planted thus
Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate
Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared
The good Man might have communed with himself,
But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,
Approached; he recognised the Priest at once,
And, after greetings interchanged, and given
By Leonard to the Vicar as to one
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.




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Leonard You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:
Your years make up one peaceful family;
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come
And welcome gone, they are so like each other,
They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral
Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months;
And yet, some changes must take place among you:
And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks,
Can trace the finger of mortality,
And see, that with our threescore years and ten
We are not all that perish.—I remember,
(For many years ago I passed this road)
There was a foot-way all along the fields
By the brook-side—'tis gone—and that dark cleft!
To me it does not seem to wear the face
Which then it had!


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135


Priest Nay, Sir, for aught I know,
That chasm is much the same—
19

140
Leonard But, surely, yonder—
Priest Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend
That does not play you false.—On that tall pike
(It is the loneliest place of all these hills)
There were two springs which bubbled side by side,
As if they had been made that they might be
Companions for each other: the huge crag
Was rent with lightning—one hath disappeared;
The other, left behind, is flowing still,
For accidents and changes such as these,
We want not store of them;—a water-spout
Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast
For folks that wander up and down like you,
To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff
One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm
Will come with loads of January snow,
And in one night send twenty score of sheep
To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies
By some untoward death among the rocks:
The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge;
A wood is felled:—and then for our own homes!
A child is born or christened, a field ploughed,
A daughter sent to service, a web spun,
The old house-clock is decked with a new face;
And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates
To chronicle the time, we all have here
A pair of diaries,—one serving, Sir,
For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side—
Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians,
Commend me to these valleys!






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Leonard Yet your Church-yard
Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,
To say that you are heedless of the past:
An orphan could not find his mother's grave:
Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass,
Cross-bones nor skull,—type of our earthly state
Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.






22




175


Priest Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me!
The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread
If every English church-yard were like ours;
Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:
We have no need of names and epitaphs;
We talk about the dead by our fire-sides.
And then, for our immortal part! we want
No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:
The thought of death sits easy on the man
Who has been born and dies among the mountains.









E

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185


Leonard Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts
Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
You, Sir, could help me to the history
Of half these graves?

190

Priest For eight-score winters past,
With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard,
Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening, [23]
If you were seated at my chimney's nook,
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one,
We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round;
Yet all in the broad highway of the world.
Now there's a grave—your foot is half upon it,—
It looks just like the rest; and yet that man
Died broken-hearted.


23








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200

Leonard 'Tis a common case.
We'll take another: who is he that lies
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?
It touches on that piece of native rock
Left in the church-yard wall.


205

Priest That's Walter Ewbank.
He had as white a head and fresh a cheek
As ever were produced by youth and age
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.
Through five long generations had the heart
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds
Of their inheritance, that single cottage—
You see it yonder! and those few green fields.
They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son,
Each struggled, and each yielded as before
A little—yet a little,—and old Walter,
They left to him the family heart, and land
With other burthens than the crop it bore.
Year after year the old man still kept up
A cheerful mind,—and buffeted with bond,
Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
And went into his grave before his time.
Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him
God only knows, but to the very last
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:
His pace was never that of an old man:
I almost see him tripping down the path
With his two grandsons after him:—but you,
Unless our Landlord be your host to-night,
Have far to travel,—and on these rough paths
Even in the longest day of midsummer—




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Leonard But those two Orphans! 27
Priest Orphans!—Such they were—
Yet not while Walter lived:—for, though their parents
Lay buried side by side as now they lie,
The old man was a father to the boys,
Two fathers in one father: and if tears,
Shed when he talked of them where they were not,
And hauntings from the infirmity of love,
Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,
This old Man, in the day of his old age,
Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir,
To hear a stranger talking about strangers,
Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!
Ay—you may turn that way—it is a grave
Which will bear looking at.
235




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Leonard These boys—I hope
They loved this good old Man?—

250
Priest They did—and truly:
But that was what we almost overlooked,
They were such darlings of each other. Yes,
Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter,
The only kinsman near them, and though he
Inclined to both by reason of his age,
With a more fond, familiar, tenderness;
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,
And it all went into each other's hearts.
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,
Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see,
To hear, to meet them!—From their house the school
Is distant three short miles, and in the time
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course
And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet
Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained
At home, go staggering through the slippery fords,
Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him,
On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,
Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep,
Their two books lying both on a dry stone,
Upon the hither side: and once I said,
As I remember, looking round these rocks
And hills on which we all of us were born,
That God who made the great book of the world
Would bless such piety—







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Leonard It may be then—
Priest Never did worthier lads break English bread;
The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
Could never keep those boys away from church,
Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.
Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner
Among these rocks, and every hollow place
That venturous foot could reach, to one or both
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;
They played like two young ravens on the crags:
Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well
As many of their betters—and for Leonard!
The very night before he went away,
In my own house I put into his hand
A bible, and I'd wager house and field
That, if he be alive, he has it yet.

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Leonard It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be
A comfort to each other—
Priest That they might
Live to such end is what both old and young
In this our valley all of us have wished,
And what, for my part, I have often prayed:
But Leonard—

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300


Leonard Then James still is left among you!
Priest Tis of the elder brother I am speaking:
They had an uncle;—he was at that time
A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas:
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud:
For the boy loved the life which we lead here;
And though of unripe years, a stripling only,
His soul was knit to this his native soil.
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
To strive with such a torrent; when he died,
The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:—
Well—all was gone, and they were destitute,
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.
Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.
If there were one among us who had heard
That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,
From the Great Gavel, down by Leeza's banks,
And down the Enna, far as Egremont.
The day would be a joyous festival;
And those two bells of ours, which there you see—
Hanging in the open air—but, O good Sir!
This is sad talk—they'll never sound for him—
Living or dead.—When last we heard of him,
He was in slavery among the Moors
Upon the Barbary coast.—'Twas not a little
That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt,
Before it ended in his death, the Youth
Was sadly crossed.—Poor Leonard! when we parted,
He took me by the hand, and said to me,
If e'er he should grow rich, he would return,
To live in peace upon his father's land,
And lay his bones among us.



37


38









39
40



41







42




43



















G

305




310




315




320




325




330




335



Leonard If that day
Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then
As any that should meet him—
340
Priest Happy! Sir—
Leonard You said his kindred all were in their graves,
And that he had one Brother—
345
Priest That is but
A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;
And Leonard being always by his side
Had done so many offices about him,
That, though he was not of a timid nature,
Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy
In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,
The little colour that he had was soon
Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined—



350




355

Leonard But these are all the graves of full-grown men!
Priest Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us;
He was the child of all the dale—he lived
Three months with one, and six months with another;
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love:
And many, many happy days were his.
But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief
His absent Brother still was at his heart.
And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found
(A practice till this time unknown to him)
That often, rising from his bed at night,
He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
He sought his brother Leonard.—You are moved!
Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,
I judged you most unkindly.







44






360




365




370

Leonard But this Youth,
How did he die at last?
Priest One sweet May-morning,
(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns)
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
With two or three companions, whom their course
Of occupation led from height to height
Under a cloudless sun—till he, at length,
Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge
The humour of the moment, lagged behind.
You see yon precipice;—it wears the shape
Of a vast building made of many crags;
And in the midst is one particular rock
That rises like a column from the vale,
Whence by our shepherds it is called, The Pillar.
Upon its aëry summit crowned with heath,
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,
Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place
On their return, they found that he was gone.
No ill was feared; till one of them by chance
Entering, when evening was far spent, the house
Which at that time was James's home, there learned
That nobody had seen him all that day:
The morning came, and still he was unheard of:
The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook
Some hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noon
They found him at the foot of that same rock
Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after
I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies!







45

46









47



48


49




















H





375




380




385




390




395




400
Leonard And that then is his grave!—Before his death
You say that he saw many happy years?

50
Priest Ay, that he did—
Leonard And all went well with him?— 405
Priest If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes. 51
Leonard And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?—
Priest Yes, long before he died, he found that time
Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless
His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune,
He talked about him with a cheerful love.


410
Leonard He could not come to an unhallowed end!
Priest Nay, God forbid!—You recollect I mentioned
A habit which disquietude and grief
Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
On the soft heath, and, waiting for his comrades,
He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep
He to the margin of the precipice
Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong:
And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth
Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think,
His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock
It had been caught mid way; and there for years
It hung;—and mouldered there.




52




53

54


415




420




425
The Priest here ended—
The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt
A gushing from his heart, that took away
The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;
And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate,
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,—
And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"
The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating
That Leonard would partake his homely fare:
The other thanked him with an earnest voice;
But added, that, the evening being calm,
He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove
That overhung the road: he there stopped short,
And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed
All that the Priest had said: his early years
Were with him:—his long absence, cherished hopes,
And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
All pressed on him with such a weight, that now,
This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed
A place in which he could not bear to live:
So he relinquished all his purposes.
He travelled back to Egremont: and thence,
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,
Reminding him of what had passed between them;
And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,
That it was from the weakness of his heart
He had not dared to tell him who he was.
This done, he went on shipboard, and is now
A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner.



Note
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55




56

57







58





59
60








430




435





440




445




450




455






Variant 1:  
1815
... their ...
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1827
Upon the forehead of a jutting crag
Sit perch'd with book and pencil on their knee,
And look and scribble, ...


1800
return


Variant 3:  
1836
... youngest child,
Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open air
With back and forward steps....


1800
return


Variant 4:  
1827
Which ...
1800
return


Variant 5:  
1815
... who ere his thirteenth year
Had chang'd his calling, with the mariners

1800
return


Variant 6:  
1840
... green ...
1800
return


Variant 7:  
1815
... at length, ...
1800
return


Variant 8:  
1827
... traffic in ...
1800
return


Variant 9:  
1827
... which he liv'd there, ...
1800
return


Variant 10:  
1836
... of one whom he so dearly lov'd,
1800
return


Variant 11:  
1836
Towards the church-yard he had turn'd aside,
1800
return


Variant 12:  
1836
... and he had hopes
1800
... and hope was his
1832
return


Variant 13:  
1815
As up the vale he came that afternoon,
1800
return


Variant 14:  
1836
... the ...
1800
return


Variant 15:  
1815
... he thought that he perceiv'd
1800
return


Variant 16:  
1827
And the eternal hills, ...
1800
And the everlasting hills, ...
1820
return


Variant 17:  
1815
He scann'd him ...
1800
return


Variant 18:  
1800
... cheeks, ...
1802
The text of 1827 returns to that of 1800.
return


Variant 19:  
1815
Why, Sir, ...
1800
return


Variant 20:  
1827
Companions for each other: ten years back,
Close to those brother fountains, the huge crag
Was rent with lightning—one is dead and gone,


1800
return


Variant 21:  
1815
Why we have store of them! ...
1800
return


Variant 22:  
1815
Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state
Or emblem of our hopes: ...

1800
return


Variant 23:  
1827
... winter's evening,
1800
return


Variant 24:  
1815
For five ...
1800
return


Variant 25:  
1802
... still preserv'd
1800
return


Variant 26:  
1815
... in ...
1800
return


Variant 27:  
1815
... these ...
1800
return


Variant 28:  
1836
... For
Though from their cradles they had liv'd with Walter,
The only kinsman near them in the house,
Yet he being old, they had much love to spare,



1800
The only Kinsman near them, and though he
Inclined to them, by reason of his age,
With a more fond, familiar tenderness,
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,



1815
return


Variant 29:  
1820
Was ...
1800
return


Variant 30:  
1836
... when elder boys perhaps
Remain'd at home, go staggering through the fords

1800
return


Variant 31:  
1832
... I've ...
1800
return


Variant 32:  
1836
The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw,
1800
return


Variant 33:  
1836
... these ....
1800
return

Variant 34:  
1836
Where foot could come, to one or both of them
1800
return


Variant 35:  
1836
... and I'd wager twenty pounds,
That, if he is alive, ...

1800
.. and I'd wager house and field

1827
return


Variant 36:  
1815
... that end, ...
1800
return


Variant 37:  
1815
... this ...
1800
return


Variant 38:  
1815
And, though a very Stripling, twelve years old;
1800
return


Variant 39:  
1827
'Tis now twelve years ...
1800
return


Variant 40:  
1820
... was ...
1800
return


Variant 41:  
1836
... a very festival,
1800
return


Variant 42:  
1815
... the Lad
1800
return


Variant 43:  
1832
If ever the day came when he was rich,
He would return, and on his Father's Land
He would grow old among us.


1800
return


Variant 44:  
1827
... liv'd ...
1800
return


Variant 45:  
1820
With two or three companions whom it chanc'd
Some further business summon'd to a house
Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tir'd perhaps,
Or from some other cause remain'd behind.



1800
return


Variant 46:  
... it almost looks
Like some vast building ...
1800
return


Variant 47:  
1827
... it is called, The Pillar.
James pointed to its summit, over which
They all had purpos'd to return together,
And told them that he there would wait for them:
They parted, and his comrades pass'd that way
Some two hours after, but they did not find him
At the appointed place, a circumstance
Of which they took no heed: but one of them,
Going by chance, at night, into the house
Which at this time was James's home, ...









1800
... but they did not find him
Upon the Pillar—at the appointed place.
Of this they took no heed: ...


1802
Which at that time ...
1802
Upon the Summit—at the appointed place.
1815
... they found that he was gone.
From this no ill was feared; but one of them,
Entering by chance, at even-tide, the house


1820
In all else the edition of 1820 is identical with the final text of 1827.
return


Variant 48:  
1836
Some went, and some towards the Lake; ...
1800
Some hastened, some towards the Lake: ...
1820
return


Variant 49:  
1815
... Lad ...
1800
return


Variant 50:  
1820
... said ...
1800
return


Variant 51:  
1815
... Lad ...
1800
return


Variant 52:  
1836
Upon the grass, ...
1800
return


Variant 53:  
1836
... he perish'd: at the time,
We guess, that in his hands he must have had

1800
must have held
1827
return


Variant 54:  
1836
... for midway in the cliff
It had been caught, and there for many years

1800
return


Variant 55:  
1815
... but he felt
Tears rushing in; both left the spot in silence,

1800
return


Variant 56:  
1836
Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated
1800
return


Variant 57:  
1836
... fervent
1800
return


Variant 58:  
1836
Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes,
1800
return


Variant 59:  
1836
... travell'd on ...
1800
return


Variant 60:  
1802
That night, address'd a letter to the Priest
1800
return





Footnote A:  This Poem was intended to be the concluding poem of a series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the abruptness with which the poem begins.—W. W. 1800.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal the following entry occurs:
"Friday, 6th August (1800).—In the morning I copied The Brothers."
Ed.
return


Footnote C:   This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, Author of The Hurricane.—W. W. 1800.

Compare another reference to The Hurricane; a Theosophical and Western Eclogue etc., by William Gilbert, in one of the notes to The Excursion, book iii. l. 931.—Ed.
return


Footnote D:   The impressive circumstance here described, actually took place some years ago in this country, upon an eminence called Kidstow Pike, one of the highest of the mountains that surround Hawes-water. The summit of the pike was stricken by lightning; and every trace of one of the fountains disappeared, while the other continued to flow as before.—W. W. 1800.
return


Footnote E:  There is not any thing more worthy of remark in the manners of the inhabitants of these mountains, than the tranquillity, I might say indifference, with which they think and talk upon the subject of death. Some of the country church-yards, as here described, do not contain a single tomb-stone, and most of them have a very small number.—W. W. 1800.
return


Footnote F:   The name in the original MS. was "Wilfred Evans."—Ed.
return


Footnote G:  The great Gavel, so called I imagine, from its resemblance to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale.

The Leeza is a River which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont—W. W. 1800.
return


Footnote H:  See Coleridge's criticism of these lines in a note to chapter xviii. of Biographia Literaria (vol. ii. p. 83 of the edition of 1817).—Ed.
return





Note:   This poem illustrates the way in which Wordsworth's imagination worked upon a minimum of fact, idealizing a simple story, and adding
'the gleam,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream.'
It is the only poem of his referring to Ennerdale; but perhaps the chief association with that dale, to those who visit it after becoming acquainted with this poem, will be the fact that the brothers Ewbank were supposed to have spent their youth under the shadow of the Pillar, and Leonard to have had this conversation, on his return from sea, with the venerable priest of Ennerdale. The district is described with all that local accuracy which Wordsworth invariably showed in idealization. The height whence James Ewbank is supposed to have fallen is not the Pillar-Rock—a crag somewhat difficult to ascend, except by practised climbers, and which has only been accessible since mountaineering became an art and a passion to Englishmen. But, if we suppose the conversation with the priest of Ennerdale to have taken place at the Bridge, below the Lake—as that is the only place where there is both a hamlet and "a churchyard"—the "precipice" will refer to the Pillar "Mountain." Both are alluded to in the poem. The lines,
You see yon precipice;—it wears the shape
Of a vast building made of many crags;
And in the midst is one particular rock
That rises like a column from the vale,
Whence by our shepherds it is called, The Pillar,
are definite enough. The great mass of the Pillar Mountain is first referred to, and then the Rock which is a characteristic spur, halfway up the mountain on its northern side. The "aëry summit crowned with heath," however, on which "the loiterer" "lay stretched at ease," could neither be the top of this "rock" nor the summit of the "mountain": not the former, because there is no heath on it, and it would be impossible for a weary man, loitering behind his companions, to ascend it to rest; not the latter, because no one resting on the summit of the mountain could be "not unnoticed by his comrades," and they would not pass that way over the top of the mountain "on their return" to Ennerdale. This is an instance, therefore, in which precise localization is impossible. Probably Wordsworth did not know either that the pillar "rock" was bare on the summit, or that it had never been ascended in 1800; and he idealised it to suit his imaginative purpose. In connection with this poem, a remark he made to the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge may be recalled.
"He said there was some foundation in fact, however slight, for every poem he had written of a narrative kind; ... The Brothers was founded on a young shepherd, in his sleep, having fallen down a crag, his staff remaining suspended mid-way."
(See the Memoirs of Wordsworth, by the late Bishop of Lincoln, vol. ii. p. 305.) It should be added that the character of Leonard Ewbank was drawn in large part from that of the poet's brother John—Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




The Seven Sisters; or, The Solitude of BinnorieA

Composed 1800B.—Published 1807

The Poem

The Story of this Poem is from the German of Frederica BrunC.—W. W. 1807.

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.





The Poem


stanza text variant footnote line number
I Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,
All children of one mother:
You could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland, of seven lilies, wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!


1











5




10
II Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
And from the shores of Erin,
Across the wave, a Rover brave
To Binnorie is steering:
Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne;
The warriors leap upon the land,
And hark! the Leader of the band
Hath blown his bugle horn.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.



15




20

III Beside a grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The Seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.
But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly to left, to right—
Of your fair household, Father-knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.


25




30


IV Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over hill and hollow,
With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful Rovers follow.
Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam:
Enough for him to find
The empty house when he comes home;
For us your yellow ringlets comb,
For us be fair and kind!"
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.



2







35




40



V Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather;
They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die,
And let us die together."
A lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never foot had been;
They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.







3


45




50




55
VI The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair,
By faeries all are buried there,
And there together sleep.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.



Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




60




65






Variant 1:  
1836
I could ...
1807
return


Variant 2:  
1807
The Irish Rovers ...
MS.
return


Variant 3:  
1807
The sisters ran like mountain sheep
MS.
And in together did they leap
MS.
return





Footnote A:  It is a well-known Scottish Ballad. In Jamieson's Popular Ballads, vol. i. p. 50 (1806), its title is "The Twa Sisters." In Walter Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. iii. p. 287, it is called "The Cruel Sisters." In The Ballads of Scotland, collected by W. Edmonstone Aytoun (1858), vol. i. p. 194, it is printed "Binnorie." In 1807 Wordsworth printed the sub-title The Solitude of Binnorie.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal there is an entry, under date August 16, 1800,
"William read us The Seven Sisters."
It is uncertain whether this refers to his own poem or not, but I incline to think it does.—Ed.
return


Footnote C:   In a MS. copy this note runs thus:
"This poem, in the groundwork of the story, is from the German of Frederica Brun."
Ed.
return


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




Rural Architecture

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. These structures, as every one knows, are common amongst our hills, being built by shepherds, as conspicuous marks, and occasionally by boys in sport.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,
Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more
Than the height of a counsellor's bag;
To the top of Great How did it please them to climb:
And there they built up, without mortar or lime,
A Man on the peak of the crag.

They built him of stones gathered up as they lay:
They built him and christened him all in one day,
An urchin both vigorous and hale;
And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones.
Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones;
The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth,
And, in anger or merriment, out of the north,
Coming on with a terrible pother,
From the peak of the crag blew the giant away.
And what did these school-boys?—The very next day
They went and they built up another.

—Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works
By Christian disturbers more savage than Turks,
Spirits busy to do and undo:
At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag;
Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag;
And I'll build up a giant with you.



Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents
1


2


















3



4



A





5





10





15





20









Variant 1:  
1800
From the meadows of Armath, on Thirlmere's wild shore,
1827
The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1800.
return


Variant 2:  
1800
... were once tempted to climb;
1827
The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1800.
return


Variant 3:  
1820
In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks,
1800
return


Variant 4:  
This last stanza was omitted from the editions of 1805 and 1815. It was restored in 1820.
return





Footnote A:   Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Ambleside.—W. W. 1800.
return to footnote mark


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




A Character

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

[The principal features are taken from my friend Robert Jones.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face:
There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain
Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
Would be rational peace—a philosopher's ease.

There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,
And attention full ten times as much as there needs;
Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;
And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

This picture from nature may seem to depart,
Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
And I for five centuries right gladly would be
Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.



Note
Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents

1








2









3







5





10





15





20






Variant 1:  
1837
For the weight and the levity seen in his face:
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1837
... and ...
1800
return


Variant 3:  
1837
What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art,
1800
return





Note:   The full title of this poem, in "Lyrical Ballads," 1800, is A Character, in the antithetical Manner. It was omitted from all subsequent editions till 1837. With this early friend, Robert Jones—a fellow collegian at St. John's College, Cambridge—Wordsworth visited the Continent (France and Switzerland), during the long vacation of 1790; and to him he dedicated the first edition of Descriptive Sketches, in 1793. With him he also made a pedestrian tour in Wales in 1791. Jones afterwards became the incumbent of Soulderne, near Deddington, in Oxfordshire; and Wordsworth described his parsonage there in the sonnet, beginning "Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends." (See Wordsworth's note to the sonnet Composed near Calais, p. 333.)—Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents




Inscription for the spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

Included in 1815 among the "Poems referring to the Period of Old Age," and in all subsequent editions among the "Inscriptions."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
If thou in the dear love of some one Friend
Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts
Will sometimes in the happiness of love
Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence
This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not unmoved
Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones,
The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell.
Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof
That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man,
After long exercise in social cares
And offices humane, intent to adore
The Deity, with undistracted mind,
And meditate on everlasting things,
In utter solitude.—But he had left
A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved
As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised
To heaven he knelt before the crucifix,
While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore
Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced
Along the beach of this small isle and thought
Of his Companion, he would pray that both
(Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled)
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain
So prayed he:—as our chronicles report,
Though here the Hermit numbered his last day
Far from St. Cuthbert his belovèd Friend,
Those holy Men both died in the same hour.



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Variant 1:   1832.

The text of this poem underwent so many changes, which are not easily shown by the plan adopted throughout this edition—portions of the earliest version of 1800 being abandoned and again adopted, and the whole arrangement of the passages being altered—that it seems desirable to append the entire text of 1800, and extensive parts of that of subsequent years. The final text of 1832 is printed above.
If thou in the dear love of some one friend
Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts
Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love
Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence
This quiet spot.—St. Herbert hither came
And here, for many seasons, from the world
Remov'd, and the affections of the world
He dwelt in solitude. He living here,
This island's sole inhabitant! had left
A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd
As his own soul; and when within his cave
Alone he knelt before the crucifix
While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore
Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd
Along the beach of this small isle and thought
Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain
So pray'd he:—as our Chronicles report,
Though here the Hermit number'd his last days,
Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend,
Those holy men both died in the same hour.




















1800
The text of the editions of 1802 and 1805 (which are identical), omits one line of the text of 1800. The passage reads:
He dwelt in solitude.—But he had left
A Fellow-labourer, whom ...
And the following variants occur in 1802 and 1805:
Make the heart sick, ....

... he would pray that both
The text of 1815, which is continued in 1820, begins thus:
This Island, guarded from profane approach
By mountains high and waters widely spread,
Is that recess to which St. Herbert came
In life's decline; a self-secluded Man,
After long exercise in social cares
And offices humane, intent to adore
The Deity, with undistracted mind,
And meditate on everlasting things.
—Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth
(Long be its mossy covering undisturbed!)
Is reverenced as a vestige of the Abode
In which, through many seasons, from the world
Removed, and the affections of the world,
He dwelt in solitude.—But he had left
A Fellow-labourer, ...














1815 and 1820
In 1827 the poem began thus:
Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth
Is the last relic of St. Herbert's Cell.
Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof
That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man,



1827
return





Footnote A:   Compare the last stanza of "Strange fits of passion have I known," p. 79 of this volume.—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   The "shapeless heap of stones" in St. Herbert's Island, which were "desolate ruins" in 1800, are even more "shapeless" and "desolate" now, but they can easily be identified. The island is near the centre of the lake, and is in area about four acres. The legend of St. Herbert dates from the middle of the seventh century. The rector of Clifton, Westmoreland, Dr. Robinson, writing in 1819, says:
"The remains of his hermitage are still visible, being built of stone and mortar, and formed into two apartments, one of which, about twenty feet long and sixteen feet wide, seems to have been his chapel; the other, of less dimensions, his cell. Near these ruins the late Sir Wilfred Lawson (to whose representative the island at present belongs) erected some years ago a small octagonal cottage, which, being built of unhewn stone, and artificially mossed over, has a venerable appearance."
(See Guide to the Lakes, by John Robinson, D.D., 1819). This cottage has now disappeared. The following version of this "Inscription" occurs in a letter from Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont, dated 26th November 1811:
This Island, guarded from profane approach
By mountains high and waters widely spread,
Gave to St. Herbert a benign retreat.
Upon a staff supported, and his Brow
White with the peaceful diadem of age.
Hither he came—a self-secluded Man,
...
Behold that shapeless Heap of stones and earth!
"Tis reverenced as a Vestige of the Abode
...
... —And when within his Cell
Alone he knelt before the crucifix,
In a previous letter to Sir George Beaumont, dated 16th November 1811:
By mountains high and waters widely spread,
Is that Seclusion which St. Herbert chose;
...
Hither he came in life's austere decline:
And, Stranger! this blank Heap of stones and earth
Is reverenced ...
Ed.


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Written with a Pencil upon a Stone in the Wall of the House (an Out-House), on the Island at GrasmereA

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

Included among the "Inscriptions."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
Proportions more harmonious, and approached
To closer fellowship with ideal grace.
But take it in good part:—alas! the poor
Vitruvius of our village had no help
From the great City; never, upon leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw displayed,
In long succession, pre-existing ghosts
Of Beauties yet unborn—the rustic Lodge
Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced,
Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove,
Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage.
Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls
The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here
The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind.
And hither does one Poet sometimes row
His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled
With plenteous store of heath and withered fern,
(A lading which he with his sickle cuts,
Among the mountains) and beneath this roof
He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep,
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool,
Lie round him, even as if they were a part
Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed
He looks, through the open door-place, toward the lake
And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep—
Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy!



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Variant 1:  
1837
... and approach'd
To somewhat of a closer fellowship
With the ideal grace. Yet as it is
Do take it in good part; for he, the poor



1800
... alas! the poor
1815
return


Variant 2:  
1837
... on the leaves
1800
return


Variant 3:  
1837
The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1837
... yet unborn, the rustic Box,
Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.

1800
return


Variant 5:  
1815
It is a homely pile, ...
1800
return


Variant 6:  
1837
He through that door-place looks ...
1800
return





Footnote A:   The title of this poem in the edition of 1800 was simply Inscription for the House (an Out-house) on the Island at Grasmere.—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   This "homely pile" on the island of Grasmere—very homely—still remains.—Ed.


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Michael

A Pastoral PoemA

Composed 1800.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written at the Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time as The Brothers. The sheepfold, on which so much of the poem turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and circumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house we lived in at Town-end, along with some fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not in fact given to this house, but to another on the same side of the valley, more to the north.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections." —Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that simple object appertains
A story—unenriched with strange events,
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved;—not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects, led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts;
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.

        Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,
When others heeded not, He heard the South
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
"The winds are now devising work for me!"
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
That came to him, and left him, on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed
The common air; hills, which with vigorous step
He had so often climbed; which had impressed
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
Which, like a book, preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
The certainty of honourable gain;
Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself.

        His days had not been passed in singleness.
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool;
That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The Pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only Child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began
To deem that he was old,—in shepherd's phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only Son,
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their household. I may truly say,
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then,
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)
And his old Father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card
Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,
That in our ancient uncouth country style
With huge and black projection overbrowed
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn—and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which, going by from year to year, had found,
And left the couple neither gay perhaps
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
Living a life of eager industry.
And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
Father and Son, while far into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
And westward to the village near the lake;
And from this constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the House itself, by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.

        Thus living on through such a length of years,
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear—
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—
Than that a child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For pastime and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand.
And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
Under the large old oak, that near his door
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears.
There, while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old;
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
And, to his office prematurely called,
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hindrance and a help;
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his Father hire of praise;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
He with his Father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which the Shepherd loved before
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came
Feelings and emanations—things which were
Light to the sun and music to the wind;
And that the old Man's heart seemed born again?

Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up:
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,
He was his comfort and his daily hope.

While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his brother's son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means;
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had prest upon him; and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had armed himself with strength
To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
"I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sunshine of God's love
Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

"When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st,
Another kinsman—he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go,
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
He may return to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is poor,
What can be gained?"
                At this the old Man paused,
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a parish-boy—at the church-door
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there,
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,
And thus resumed:—"Well, Isabel! this scheme
These two days, has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
—We have enough—I wish indeed that I
Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope.
Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
—If he could go, the Boy should go to-night."

Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work: for, when she lay
By Michael's side, she through the last two nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go:
We have no other Child but thee to lose,
None to remember—do not go away,
For if thou leave thy Father he will die."
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy;
To which, requests were added, that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over; Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the old Man said,
"He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
The Housewife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,
And thus the old Man spake to him:—"My Son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should touch
On things thou canst not know of.—After thou
First cam'st into the world—as oft befals
To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side
First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month,
And in the open fields my life was passed
And on the mountains; else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees.
But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
As well thou knowest, in us the old and young
Have played together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,
And said, "Nay, do not take it so—I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
—Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others' hands; for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth.
Both of them sleep together: here they lived,
As all their Forefathers had done; and when
At length their time was come, they were not loth
To give their bodies to the family mould.
I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived:
But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,
And see so little gain from threescore years.
These fields were burthened when they came to me;
Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine.
I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work,
And till these three weeks past the land was free.
—It looks as if it never could endure
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That thou should'st go,"

At this the old Man paused;
Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:
"This was a work for us; and now, my Son,
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone—
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
Nay, Boy, be of good hope;—we both may live
To see a better day. At eighty-four
I still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part;
I will do mine.—I will begin again
With many tasks that were resigned to thee:
Up to the heights, and in among the storms,
Will I without thee go again, and do
All works which I was wont to do alone,
Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy!
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast
With many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes—
I knew that thou could'st never have a wish
To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me
Only by links of love: when thou art gone,
What will be left to us!—But, I forget
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,
As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,
When thou art gone away, should evil men
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,
And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,
And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,
Who, being innocent, did for that cause
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—
When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see
A work which is not here: a covenant
'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate
Befal thee, I shall love thee to the last,
And bear thy memory with me to the grave."

The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down,
And, as his Father had requested, laid
The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight
The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart
He pressed his Son, he kissèd him and wept;
And to the house together they returned.
—Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace,
Ere the night fell:—with morrow's dawn the Boy
Began his journey, and when he had reached
The public way, he put on a bold face;
And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him till he was out of sight.

A good report did from their Kinsman come,
Of Luke and his well doing: and the Boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout
"The prettiest letters that were ever seen."
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
So, many months passed on: and once again
The Shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began
To slacken in his duty; and, at length,
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses: ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

There is a comfort in the strength of love;
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else
Would overset the brain, or break the heart:
I have conversed with more than one who well
Remember the old Man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,
And listened to the wind; and, as before,
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,
And for the land, his small inheritance.
And to that hollow dell from time to time
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in every heart
For the old Man—and 'tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went,
And never lifted up a single stone.

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years, from time to time,
He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought,
And left the work unfinished when he died.
Three years, or little more, did Isabel
Survive her Husband: at her death the estate
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.
The Cottage which was named the Evening Star
Is gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground
On which it stood; great changes have been wrought
In all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is left
That grew beside their door; and the remains
Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.



Note
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40




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50




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60




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80




85




90




95




100




105





110




115




120




125




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140




145




150




155




160




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170




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180




185




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195





200




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225




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235




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265




270




275




280




285





290




295




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355




360




365




370




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415




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455




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Variant 1:  
1827
... beside ...
1800
return


Variant 2:  
1827
No habitation there is seen; but such
As journey thither ...

1800
return


Variant 3:  
1827
There is ...
1800
return


Variant 4:  
1836
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events,
Is not unfit, ...


1800
return


Variant 5:  
1827
... It was the first,
The earliest of those tales ...

1800
return


Variant 6:  
1827
... he had learn'd ...
1800
return


Variant 7:  
1836
... the hills, which he so oft
Had climb'd with vigorous steps; ...

1800
return


Variant 8:  
1832
... linking to such acts,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honourable gains; these fields, these hills
Which were his living Being, even more
Than his own Blood—what could they less? had laid




1800
... gain ...
1805
return


Variant 9:  
1815
He had not passed his days in singleness.
He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old

1800
return


Variant 10:  
1836
... their ...
1800
return


Variant 11:  
1836
... their ...
1800
return


Variant 12:  
1836
... their ...
1800
return


Variant 13:  
1827
Which ...
1800
return


Variant 14:  
1836
Did with a huge projection overbrow
1800
return


Variant 15:  
1827
... was in his ...
1800
return


Variant 16:  
1836
... while late ...
1800
return


Variant 17:  
Not with a waste of words, but for the sake
Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give
To many living now, I of this Lamp
Speak thus minutely: for there are no few
Whose memories will bear witness to my tale.
These lines appeared only in the editions of 1800 and 1802.
return


Variant 18:  
1815
The ...
1800
return


Variant 19:  
1832
The ...
1800
return


Variant 20:  
1827
... yet more dear—
Effect which might perhaps have been produc'd
By that instinctive tenderness, ...


1800
return


Variant 21:  
1836
Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all,
1800
return


Variant 22:  
1827
Or ...
1800
return


Variant 23:  
This line was first printed in the edition of 1836.
return


Variant 24:  
From such, and other causes, to the thoughts
Of the old Man his only Son was now
The dearest object that he knew on earth.


Only in the editions of 1800 to 1820.
return


Variant 25:  
1827
For dalliance ...
1800
return


Variant 26:  
1836
His cradle with a woman's gentle hand.
1800
return


Variant 27:  
1836
... when he
Had work by his own door, or when he sate
With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool,
Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door
Stood, and from its enormous breadth of shade




1800
return


Variant 28:  
1815
While this good household thus were living on
1800
While in the fashion which I have described
This simple Household thus were living on

1800 (2nd issue).
return


Variant 29:  
1836
As soon as he had gather'd so much strength
That he could look his trouble in the face,
It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell


1800
return


Variant 30:  
1827
... itself
1800
return


Variant 31:  
1836
May come again to us ...
1800
return


Variant 32:  
Italics were first used in 1827.
return


Variant 33:  
1836
... for the two last nights
1800
... through the
1815
return


Variant 34:  
1815
The Lad ...
1800
return


Variant 35:  
1820
Next morning ...
1800
return


Variant 36:  
1815
... which close to the brook side
1800
return


Variant 37:  
1836
... should speak
Of things ...

1800
return


Variant 38:  
1827
... as it befalls
1800
return


Variant 39:  
1836
When ...
1800
return


Variant 40:  
1815
... in ...
1800
return


Variant 41:  
1827
... from sixty years.
1800
return


Variant 42:  
I for the purpose brought thee to this place.
This line appears only in the edition of 1800.
return


Variant 43:  
1827
... stout; ...
1800
return


Variant 44:  
1802
... should evil men
Be thy companions, let this Sheep-fold be
Thy anchor and thy shield; amid all fear
And all temptation, let it be to thee
An emblem of the life thy Fathers liv'd,




1800
return


Variant 45:  
This line was added in the edition of 1815.
return


Variant 46:  
1815
Next morning, as had been resolv'd, the Boy
1800
return


Variant 47:  
1820
Would break the heart:—Old Michael found it so.
1800
return


Variant 48:  
1836
... look'd up upon the sun,
1800
... towards the sun,
1832
return


Variant 49:  
1836
Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog,
1800
return





Footnote A:   The Rev. Thomas Hutchinson, Kimbolton, tells me that in his copy of the edition of "Lyrical Ballads" of 1800 there is
"on the blank page facing the announcement, written in Wordsworth's handwriting, the following lines: '
Though it be in th' humblest rank of life,
And in the lowest region of our speech,
Yet is it in that kind as best accords
With rural passion.'"
Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   The following lines were written before April 1801, and were at one time meant to be inserted after "summer flies," and before "Not with a waste of words." They are quoted in a letter of Wordsworth's to Thomas Poole of Nether Stowey, dated April 9th, 1801.
'Though in their occupations they would pass
Whole hours with but small interchange of speech,
Yet were there times in which they did not want
Discourse both wise and prudent, shrewd remarks
Of daily providence, clothed in images
Lively and beautiful, in rural forms
That made their conversation fresh and fair
As is a landscape;—And the shepherd oft
Would draw out of his heart the obscurities
And admirations that were there, of God
And of His works, or, yielding to the bent
Of his peculiar humour, would let loose
The tongue and give it the wind's freedom,—then
Discoursing on remote imaginations, story,
Conceits, devices, day-dreams, thoughts and schemes,
The fancies of a solitary man.'
Ed.
return


Footnote C:  Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.—W. W. 1800
return


Footnote D:  The lines from "Though nought was left," to "daily hope" (192-206) were, by a printer's blunder, omitted from the first issue of 1800. In the second issue of that year they are given in full.—Ed.
return


Footnote E:   The story alluded to here is well known in the country. The chapel is called Ings Chapel; and is on the right hand side of the road leading from Kendal to Ambleside.—W. W. 1800.

Ings chapel is in the parish of Kendal, about two miles east of Windermere. The following extract from Lewis's Topographical Dictionary further explains the allusion in the poem:
"Hugil, a chapelry six and a quarter miles from Kendal. The chapel, rebuilt in 1743 by Robert Bateman, stands in the village of Ings, which is in this chapelry. The free school was endowed with land in 1650 by Roland Wilson, producing at present £12 per annum. The average number of boys is twenty-five. This endowment was augmented by £8 per annum by Robert Bateman, who gave £1000 for purchasing an estate, and erected eight alms-houses for as many poor families, besides a donation of £12 per annum to the curate. This worthy benefactor was born here, and from a state of indigence succeeded in amassing considerable wealth by mercantile pursuits. He is stated to have been poisoned, in the straits of Gibraltar, on his voyage from Leghorn, with a valuable cargo, by the captain of the vessel,"
(See The Topographical Dictionary of England, by Samuel Lewis, vol. ii. p. 1831.)—Ed.
return


Footnote F:   There is a slight inconsistency here. The conversation is represented as taking place in the evening (see l. 227).—Ed.
return


Footnote G:   It may be proper to inform some readers, that a sheep-fold in these mountains is an unroofed building of stone walls, with different divisions. It is generally placed by the side of a brook, for the convenience of washing the sheep; but it is also useful as a shelter for them, and as a place to drive them into, to enable the shepherds conveniently to single out one or more for any particular purpose.—W. W. 1800.
return





Note:   From the Fenwick note it will be seen that Michael's sheep-fold, in Green-head Ghyll, existed—at least the remains of it— in 1843. Its site, however, is now very difficult to identify. There is a sheep-fold above Boon Beck, which one passes immediately on entering the common, going up Green-head Ghyll. It is now "finished," and used when required. There are remains of walling, much higher up the ghyll; but these are probably the work of miners, formerly engaged there. Michael's cottage had been destroyed when the poem was written, in 1800. It stood where the coach-house and stables of "the Hollins" now stand. But one who visits Green-head Ghyll, and wishes to realize Michael in his old age—as described in this poem—should ascend the ghyll till it almost reaches the top of Fairfield; where the old man, during eighty years,
'had learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone,'
and where he
'had been alone,
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
That came to him, and left him, on the heights.'
By so doing he will be better able to realize the spirit of the poem, than by trying to identify the site either of the "unfinished sheep-fold," or of the house named the "Evening Star." What Wordsworth said to the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge in reference to The Brothers has been quoted in the note to that poem, p. 203. On the same occasion he remarked, in reference to Michael:—
"Michael was founded on the son of an old couple having become dissolute, and run away from his parents; and on an old shepherd having been seven years in building up a sheep-fold in a solitary valley."
(Memoirs of Wordsworth, by the late Bishop of Lincoln, vol. ii. p. 305.)

The following extracts from Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, show the carefulness with which the poem Michael was composed, and the frequent revisions which it underwent:—
Oct. 11 [1800.] "We walked up Green-head ghyll in search of a sheepfold.... The sheepfold is falling away. It is built nearly in the form of a heart unequally divided."

13. "William composing in the evening."

15. "W. composed a little." ... "W. again composed at the sheepfold after dinner."

18. "W. worked all the morning at the sheepfold, but in vain. He lay down till 7 o'clock, but did not sleep."

19. "William got to work."

20. "W. worked in the morning at the sheepfold."

21. "W. had been unsuccessful in the morning at the sheepfold."

22. "W. composed, without much success, at the sheepfold."

23. "W. was not successful in composition in the evening."

24. "W. was only partly successful in composition."

26. "W. composed a good deal all the morning."

28. "W. could not compose much; fatigued himself with altering."

30. "W. worked at his poem all the morning."

Nov. 10. "W. at the sheepfold."

12. "W. has been working at the sheepfold."

Dec. 9. "W. finished his poem to-day."
It is impossible to say with certainty that the entry under Dec. 9 refers to Michael, but if it does, it is evident that Wordsworth wrought continuously at this poem for nearly two months.

On April 9, 1801, Wordsworth wrote to Thomas Poole:
"In writing it" (Michael), "I had your character often before my eyes; and sometimes thought that I was delineating such a man as you yourself would have been, under the same circumstances."
The following is part of a letter written by Wordsworth to Charles James Fox in 1802, and sent with a copy of "Lyrical Ballads":
"In the two poems, The Brothers and Michael, I have attempted to draw a picture of the domestic affections, as I know they exist amongst a class of men who are now almost confined to the north of England. They are small independent proprietors of land, here called 'statesmen,' men of respectable education, who daily labour on their own little properties. The domestic affections will always be strong amongst men who live in a country not crowded with population; if these men are placed above poverty. But, if they are proprietors of small estates which have descended to them from their ancestors, the power which these affections will acquire amongst such men, is inconceivable by those who have only had an opportunity of observing hired labourers, farmers, and the manufacturing poor. Their little tract of land serves as a kind of permanent rallying point for their domestic feelings, as a tablet on which they are written, which makes them objects of memory in a thousand instances, when they would otherwise be forgotten. It is a fountain fitted to the nature of social man, from which supplies of affection as pure as his heart was intended for, are daily drawn. This class of men is rapidly disappearing.... The two poems that I have mentioned were written with a view to show that men who do not wear fine clothes can feel deeply. Pectus enim est quod disertos facit, et vis mentis. Ideoque imperitis quoque, si modo sint aliquo affectu concitati, verba non desunt. The poems are faithful copies from nature; and I hope whatever effect they may have upon you, you will at least be able to perceive that they may excite profitable sympathies in many kind and good hearts; and may in some small degree enlarge our feelings of reverence for our species, and our knowledge of human nature, by showing that our best qualities are possessed by men whom we are too apt to consider, not with reference to the points in which they resemble us, but to those in which they manifestly differ from us."
A number of fragments, originally meant to be parts of Michael,—or at least written with such a possibility in view,— will be found in the Appendix to the eighth volume of this edition.—Ed.


Contents: Poems on the Naming of Places
Main Contents






1800 end of Volume II: Poems on the Naming of Places 1801
Main Contents







Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1801



Edited by William Knight

1896



Table of Contents






1801

The Sparrow's Nest, and the sonnet on Skiddaw, along with some translations from Chaucer, belong to the year 1801. During this year, however, The Excursion was in progress. In its earlier stages, and before the plan of 'The Recluse' was matured, the introductory part was familiarly known, and talked of in the Wordsworth household, by the name of "The Pedlar." The following extracts from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal of 1801 will show the progress that was being made with it:
"Dec. 21.—Wm. sate beside me, and wrote The Pedlar.

22nd.—W. composed a few lines of The Pedlar.

23rd.— William worked at The Ruined Cottage" (this was the name of the first part of 'The Excursion', in which The Pedlar was included), "and made himself very ill," etc.
Ed.


Contents 1801
Main Contents




The Sparrow's Nest

Composed 1801.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. At the end of the garden of my father's house at Cockermouth was a high terrace that commanded a fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. This was our favourite play-ground. The terrace wall, a low one, was covered with closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost impervious shelter to birds who built their nests there. The latter of these stanzasA alludes to one of those nests.—I. F.]

This poem was first published in the series entitled "Moods of my own Mind," in 1807. In 1815 it was included among the "Poems founded on the Affections," and in 1845 was transferred to the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood." —Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Behold, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.
I started—seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My Father's house, in wet or dry
My sister Emmeline and I
Together visited.

She looked at it and seemed to fear it;
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it:
Such heart was in her, being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy:
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.



Note
Contents 1801
Main Contents



1








2





5




10





15




20






Variant 1:  
1815
Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there!
Few visions have I seen more fair,
Nor many prospects of delight
More pleasing than that simple sight!



1807
return


Variant 2:  
1845
She look'd at it as if she fear'd it;
Still wishing, dreading to be near it:

1807
return





Footnote A:   So it stands in the Fenwick note; but it should evidently read, "The following stanzas allude."—Ed.
return to footnote mark








Note:   Wordsworth's "sister Emmeline" was his only sister, Dorothy; and in the MS. sent originally to the printer the line was "My sister Dorothy and I." This poem is referred to in a subsequent one, A Farewell, l. 56. See page 326 of this volume.—Ed.


Contents 1801
Main Contents




"Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side"

Composed 1801.—Published 1815

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets." From 1836 onwards it bore the title 1801.—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enrolled:
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;
And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,"
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
While not an English Mountain we behold
By the celestial Muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee,
Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty
Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds
His double front among Atlantic clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.



Contents 1801
Main Contents

1









2
3




A












5




10









Variant 1:  
1815
illustrious ...
MS.
return


Variant 2:  
1834
fairer ...
1815
return


Variant 3:  
1827
His double-fronted head in higher clouds,
1815
... among Atlantic clouds,
MS.
return





Footnote A:   See Spenser's translation of Virgil's Gnat, ll. 21-2:
'Or where on Mount Parnasse, the Muses brood.
Doth his broad forehead like two horns divide,
And the sweet waves of sounding Castaly
With liquid foot doth glide down easily.'
Ed.
return to footnote mark


Contents 1801
Main Contents




Selections from Chaucer (Modernised)

Wordsworth's modernisations of Chaucer were all written in 1801. Two of them were from the Canterbury Tales, but his version of one of these—The Manciple's Tale—has never been printed. Of the three poems which were published, the first—The Prioress' Tale—was included in the edition of 1820. The Troilus and Cressida and The Cuckoo and the Nightingale were included in the "Poems of Early and Late Years" (1842); but they had been published the year before, in a small volume entitled The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised (London, 1841), a volume to which Elizabeth Barrett, Leigh Hunt, R. H. Home, Thomas Powell, and others contributed. Wordsworth wrote thus of the project to Mr. Powell, in an unpublished and undated letter, written probably in 1840:
"I am glad that you enter so warmly into the Chaucerian project, and that Mr. L. Hunt is disposed to give his valuable aid to it. For myself, I cannot do more than I offered, to place at your disposal The Prioress' Tale already published, The Cuckoo and the Nightingale, The Manciple's Tale, and I rather think (but I cannot just now find it) a small portion of the Troilus and Cressida. You ask my opinion about that poem. Speaking from a recollection only, of many years past, I should say it would be found too long and probably tedious. The Knight's Tale is also very long; but, though Dryden has executed it, in his own way observe, with great spirit and harmony, he has suffered so much of the simplicity, and with that of the beauty and occasional pathos of the original to escape, that I should be pleased to hear that a new version was to be attempted upon my principle by some competent person. It would delight me to read every part of Chaucer over again—for I reverence and admire him above measure—with a view to your work; but my eyes will not permit me to do so. Who will undertake the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales? For your publication that is indispensable, and I fear it will prove very difficult. It is written, as you know, in the couplet measure; and therefore I have nothing to say upon its metre, but in respect to the poems in stanza, neither in The Prioress' Tale nor in The Cuckoo and Nightingale have I kept to the rule of the original as to the form, and number, and position of the rhymes; thinking it enough if I kept the same number of lines in each stanza; and this is, I think, all that is necessary, and all that can be done without sacrificing the substance of sense too often to the mere form of sound."
In a subsequent letter to Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia, dated "Rydal Mount, January 13th, 1841," Wordsworth said:
"So great is my admiration of Chaucer's genius, and so profound my reverence for him as an instrument in the hands of Providence, for spreading the light of literature through his native land, that notwithstanding the defects and faults in this publication" (referring, I presume, to the volume, The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised), "I am glad of it, as a means of making many acquainted with the original, who would otherwise be ignorant of everything about him but his name."
Ed.


Contents 1801
Main Contents




The Prioress' Tale

Translated 1801A.—Published 1820

The Poem

"Call up him who left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold."B
In the following Piece I have allowed myself no farther deviations from the original than were necessary for the fluent reading, and instant understanding, of the Author: so much however is the language altered since Chaucer's time, especially in pronunciation, that much was to be removed, and its place supplied with as little incongruity as possible. The ancient accent has been retained in a few conjunctions, such as also and alway, from a conviction that such sprinklings of antiquity would be admitted, by persons of taste, to have a graceful accordance with the subject.—W. W. (1820).

The fierce bigotry of the Prioress forms a fine back ground for her tender-hearted sympathies with the Mother and Child; and the mode in which the story is told amply atones for the extravagance of the miracle.— W. W. (added in 1827).

In the editions of 1820 and 1827 The Prioress' Tale followed The White Doe of Rylstone. In 1832 it followed the "Inscriptions"; and in 1836 it was included among the "Poems founded on the Affections." In 1845 it found its appropriate place in the "Selections from Chaucer modernised."—Ed.





The Poem


stanza text variant footnote line number
I "O Lord, our Lord! how wondrously," (quoth she)
"Thy name in this large world is spread abroad!
For not alone by men of dignity
Thy worship is performed and precious laud;
But by the mouths of children, gracious God!
Thy goodness is set forth; they when they lie
Upon the breast thy name do glorify.




5

II "Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that I may,
Jesu! of thee, and the white Lily-flower
Which did thee bear, and is a Maid for aye,
To tell a story I will use my power;
Not that I may increase her honour's dower,
For she herself is honour, and the root
Of goodness, next her Son, our soul's best boot.


10



III "O Mother Maid! O Maid and Mother free!
O bush unburnt! burning in Moses' sight!
That down didst ravish from the Deity,
Through humbleness, the spirit that did alight
Upon thy heart, whence, through that glory's might,
Conceived was the Father's sapience,
Help me to tell it in thy reverence!
15




20
IV "Lady! thy goodness, thy magnificence,
Thy virtue, and thy great humility,
Surpass all science and all utterance;
For sometimes, Lady! ere men pray to thee
Thou goest before in thy benignity,
The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer,
To be our guide unto thy Son so dear.



25


V "My knowledge is so weak, O blissful Queen!
To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness,
That I the weight of it may not sustain;
But as a child of twelvemonths old or less,
That laboureth his language to express,
Even so fare I; and therefore, I thee pray,
Guide thou my song which I of thee shall say.

30




35
VI "There was in Asia, in a mighty town,
'Mong Christian folk, a street where Jews might be,
Assigned to them and given them for their own
By a great Lord, for gain and usury,
Hateful to Christ and to his company;
And through this street who list might ride and wend;
Free was it, and unbarred at either end.




40

VII "A little school of Christian people stood
Down at the farther end, in which there were
A nest of children come of Christian blood,
That learnèd in that school from year to year
Such sort of doctrine as men used there,
That is to say, to sing and read also,
As little children in their childhood do.


45



VIII "Among these children was a Widow's son,
A little scholar, scarcely seven years old,
Who day by day unto this school hath gone,
And eke, when he the image did behold
Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told,
This Child was wont to kneel adown and say
Ave Marie, as he goeth by the way.

C




50




55
IX "This Widow thus her little Son hath taught
Our blissful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear,
To worship aye, and he forgat it not;
For simple infant hath a ready ear.
Sweet is the holiness of youth: and hence,
Calling to mind this matter when I may,
Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye,
For he so young to Christ did reverence.







D



60



X "This little Child, while in the school he sate
His Primer conning with an earnest cheer,
The whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat
The Alma Redemptoris did he hear;
And as he durst he drew him near and near,
And hearkened to the words and to the note,
Till the first verse he learned it all by rote.

E




65




70
XI "This Latin knew he nothing what it said,
For he too tender was of age to know;
But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed
That he the meaning of this song would show,
And unto him declare why men sing so;
This oftentimes, that he might be at ease,
This child did him beseech on his bare knees.



75


XII "His Schoolfellow, who elder was than he,
Answered him thus:—'This song, I have heard say,
Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free;
Her to salute, and also her to pray
To be our help upon our dying day:
If there is more in this, I know it not:
Song do I learn,—small grammar I have got.'

80




85
XIII "'And is this song fashioned in reverence
Of Jesu's Mother?' said this Innocent;
'Now, certès, I will use my diligence
To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent;
Although I for my Primer shall be shent,
And shall be beaten three times in an hour,
Our Lady I will praise with all my power.'




90

XIV "His Schoolfellow, whom he had so besought,
As they went homeward taught him privily
And then he sang it well and fearlessly,
From word to word according to the note:
Twice in a day it passèd through his throat;
Homeward and schoolward whensoe'er he went,
On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent.


95



XV "Through all the Jewry (this before said I)
This little Child, as he came to and fro,
Full merrily then would he sing and cry,
O Alma Redemptoris! high and low:
The sweetness of Christ's Mother piercèd so
His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray,
He cannot stop his singing by the way.
100




105
XVI "The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath
His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled—'O woe,
O Hebrew people!' said he in his wrath,
'Is it an honest thing? Shall this be so?
That such a Boy where'er he lists shall go
In your despite, and sing his hymns and saws,
Which is against the reverence of our laws!'




1




110


XVII "From that day forward have the Jews conspired
Out of the world this Innocent to chase;
And to this end a Homicide they hired,
That in an alley had a privy place,
And, as the Child 'gan to the school to pace,
This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast
And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast.

115




120
XVIII "I say that him into a pit they threw,
A loathsome pit, whence noisome scents exhale;
O cursèd folk! away, ye Herods new!
What may your ill intentions you avail?
Murder will out; certès it will not fail;
Know, that the honour of high God may spread,
The blood cries out on your accursèd deed.




125

XIX "O Martyr 'stablished in virginity!
Now may'st thou sing for aye before the throne,
Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she,
"Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John,
In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go
Before the Lamb singing continually,
That never fleshly woman they did know.


130



XX "Now this poor widow waiteth all that night
After her little Child, and he came not;
For which, by earliest glimpse of morning light,
With face all pale with dread and busy thought,
She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought,
Until thus far she learned, that he had been
In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen.
135




140
XXI "With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed
She goeth, as she were half out of her mind,
To every place wherein she hath supposed
By likelihood her little Son to find;
And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind
She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought,
And him among the accursèd Jews she sought.



145


XXII "She asketh, and she piteously doth pray
To every Jew that dwelleth in that place
To tell her if her child had passed that way;
They all said—Nay; but Jesu of his grace
Gave to her thought, that in a little space
She for her Son in that same spot did cry
Where he was cast into a pit hard by.

150




155
XXIII "O thou great God that dost perform thy laud
By mouths of Innocents, lo! here thy might;
This gem of chastity, this emerald,
And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright,
There, where with mangled throat he lay upright,
The Alma Redemptoris 'gan to sing
So loud, that with his voice the place did ring.




160

XXIV "The Christian folk that through the Jewry went
Come to the spot in wonder at the thing;
And hastily they for the Provost sent;
Immediately he came, not tarrying,
And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly King,
And eke his Mother, honour of Mankind:
Which done, he bade that they the Jews should bind.


165



XXV "This Child with piteous lamentation then
Was taken up, singing his song alwày;
And with procession great and pomp of men
To the next Abbey him they bare away;
His Mother swooning by the body lay:
And scarcely could the people that were near
Remove this second Rachel from the bier.




2

170




175
XXVI "Torment and shameful death to every one
This Provost doth for those bad Jews prepare
That of this murder wist, and that anon:
Such wickedness his judgments cannot spare;
Who will do evil, evil shall he bear;
Them therefore with wild horses did he draw,
And after that he hung them by the law.



180


XXVII "Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie
Before the altar while the Mass doth last:
The Abbot with his convent's company
Then sped themselves to bury him full fast;
And, when they holy water on him cast,
Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was the water;
And sang, O Alma Redemptoris Mater!

185




190
XXVIII "This Abbot, for he was a holy man,
As all Monks are, or surely ought to be,
In supplication to the Child began
Thus saying, 'O dear Child! I summon thee
In virtue of the holy Trinity
Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this hymn,
Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth seem.'

3








195

XXIX "'My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,'
Said this young Child, 'and by the law of kind
I should have died, yea many hours ago;
But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find,
Will that his glory last, and be in mind;
And, for the worship of his Mother dear,
Yet may I sing, O Alma! loud and clear.


200



XXX "'This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet,
After my knowledge I have loved alwày;
And in the hour when I my death did meet
To me she came, and thus to me did say,
"Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay,"
As ye have heard; and soon as I had sung
Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue.
205




210
XXXI "'Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain,
In honour of that blissful Maiden free,
Till from my tongue off-taken is the grain;
And after that thus said she unto me;
"My little Child, then will I come for thee
Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they take:
Be not dismayed, I will not thee forsake!"'



215


XXXII "This holy Monk, this Abbot—him mean I,
Touched then his tongue, and took away the grain;
And he gave up the ghost full peacefully;
And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen,
His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain;
And on his face he dropped upon the ground,
And still he lay as if he had been bound.

220




225<
XXXIII "Eke the whole Convent on the pavement lay,
Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear;
And after that they rose, and took their way,
And lifted up this Martyr from the bier,
And in a tomb of precious marble clear
Enclosed his uncorrupted body sweet.—
Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet!





F




230

XXXIV "Young Hew of Lincoln! in like sort laid low
By cursèd Jews—thing well and widely known,
For it was done a little while ago—
Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry
Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye,
In mercy would his mercy multiply
On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary!"



Contents 1801
Main Contents


4





235









Variant 1:  
1827
... list ...
1820
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Variant 2:  
1845
... by the Bier ...
1820
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Variant 3:  
1827
This Abbot who had been a holy man And was, as all Monks are, or ought to be,a

1820
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Variant 4:  
1836
For not long since was dealt the cruel blow,
1820
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Footnote A:  
"Friday, 4th December 1801.... William translating The Prioress' Tale."

"Saturday, 5th. William finished The Prioress' Tale, and after tea, Mary and he wrote it out"
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal).—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  See Il Penseroso, l. 110.—Ed.
return


Footnote C:   Chaucer's phrase is "a litel clergeon," Wordsworth's, "a little scholar;" but "clergeon" is a chorister, not a scholar.—Ed.
return


Footnote D:  
"Chaucer's text is:
'Thus hath this widow her litel child i-taught
Our blissful lady, Criste's moder deere,
To worschip ay, and he forgat it nought;
For sely child wil alway soone leere.'
'For sely child wil alway soone leere,' i.e. for a happy child will always learn soon. Wordsworth renders:
'For simple infant hath a ready ear,'
and adds:
'Sweet is the holiness of youth,'
extending the stanza to receive this addition from seven to eight lines, with an altered rhyme-system."
(Professor Edward Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.
return


Footnote E:   Chaucer's text is:
'This litel child his litel book lernynge
As he sat in the schole in his primere.'
Ed.
return


Footnote F:   Chaucer's text is:
'And in a tombe of marble stoones clere
Enclosed they this litel body swete.'
Ed.
return





Sub-Footnote a:   This was erased in the Errata of 1820, but it may be reproduced here.—Ed.
return


Contents 1801
Main Contents




The Cuckoo and the Nightingale

Translated 1801A.—Published 1841B






The Poem


stanza text variant footnote line number
I The God of Love—ah, benedicite!
How mighty and how great a Lord is he!
For he of low hearts can make high, of high
He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;
And hard hearts he can make them kind and free.




1




5
II Within a little time, as hath been found,
He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound:
Them who are whole in body and in mind,
He can make sick,—bind can he and unbind
All that he will have bound, or have unbound.




10
III To tell his might my wit may not suffice;
Foolish men he can make them out of wise;—
For he may do all that he will devise;
Loose livers he can make abate their vice,
And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice.




15
IV In brief, the whole of what he will, he may;
Against him dare not any wight say nay;
To humble or afflict whome'er he will,
To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill;
But most his might he sheds on the eve of May.




20
V For every true heart, gentle heart and free,
That with him is, or thinketh so to be,
Now against May shall have some stirring—whether
To joy, or be it to some mourning; never
At other time, methinks, in like degree.




25
VI For now when they may hear the small birds' song,
And see the budding leaves the branches throng,
This unto their remembrance doth bring
All kinds of pleasure mix'd with sorrowing;
And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long.




30
VII And of that longing heaviness doth come,
Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home;
Sick are they all for lack of their desire;
And thus in May their hearts are set on fire,
So that they burn forth in great martyrdom.




35
VIII In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now
Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow;
Yet have I felt of sickness through the May,
Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,—
How hard, alas! to bear, I only know.




40
IX Such shaking doth the fever in me keep
Through all this May that I have little sleep;
And also 'tis not likely unto me,
That any living heart should sleepy be
In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep.




45
X But tossing lately on a sleepless bed,
I of a token thought which Lovers heed;
How among them it was a common tale,
That it was good to hear the Nightingale,
Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be utterèd.




50
XI And then I thought anon as it was day,
I gladly would go somewhere to essay
If I perchance a Nightingale might hear,
For yet had I heard none, of all that year,
And it was then the third night of the May.




55
XII And soon as I a glimpse of day espied,
No longer would I in my bed abide,
But straightway to a wood that was hard by,
Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly,
And held the pathway down by a brook-side;




60
XIII Till to a lawn I came all white and green,
I in so fair a one had never been.
The ground was green, with daisy powdered over;
Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover,
All green and white; and nothing else was seen.




C




65
XIV There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers,
And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers,
Where they had rested them all night; and they,
Who were so joyful at the light of day,
Began to honour May with all their powers.




70
XV Well did they know that service all by rote,
And there was many and many a lovely note,
Some, singing loud, as if they had complained;
Some with their notes another manner feigned;
And some did sing all out with the full throat.




75
XVI They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay,
Dancing and leaping light upon the spray;
And ever two and two together were,
The same as they had chosen for the year,
Upon Saint Valentine's returning day.




80
XVII Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon,
Was making such a noise as it ran on
Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony;
Methought that it was the best melody
Which ever to man's ear a passage won.




85
XVIII And for delight, but how I never wot,
I in a slumber and a swoon was caught,
Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly;
And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy,
Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought.




90
XIX And that was right upon a tree fast by,
And who was then ill satisfied but I?
Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood,
From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good,
Full little joy have I now of thy cry.




95
XX And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide,
In the next bush that was me fast beside,
I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,
That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
Echoing through all the green wood wide.




D




100
XXI Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's cheer,
Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long;
For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here,
And she hath been before thee with her song;
Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong.


2





105
XXII But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray;
As long as in that swooning-fit I lay,
Methought I wist right well what these birds meant,
And had good knowing both of their intent,
And of their speech, and all that they would say.




110<
XXIII The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:—
Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake,
And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here;
For every wight eschews thy song to hear,
Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.




115
XXIV What! quoth she then, what is't that ails thee now?
It seems to me I sing as well as thou;
For mine's a song that is both true and plain,—
Although I cannot quaver so in vain
As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how.




120
XXV All men may understanding have of me,
But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee;
For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:—
Thou say'st, Osee, Osee, then how may I
Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be?




125
XXVI Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is?
Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis,
Then mean I, that I should be wondrous fain
That shamefully they one and all were slain,
Whoever against Love mean aught amiss.




130
XXVII And also would I that they all were dead,
Who do not think in love their life to lead;
For who is both the God of Love to obey,
Is only fit to die, I dare well say,
And for that cause Osee I cry; take heed!




135
XXVIII Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law,
That all must love or die; but I withdraw,
And take my leave of all such company,
For mine intent it neither is to die,
Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw.




140
XXIX For lovers of all folk that be alive,
The most disquiet have and least do thrive;
Most feeling have of sorrow woe and care,
And the least welfare cometh to their share;
What need is there against the truth to strive?


3





145
XXX What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind,
That in thy churlishness a cause canst find
To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood;
For in this world no service is so good
To every wight that gentle is of kind.




150
XXXI For thereof comes all goodness and all worth;
All gentiless and honour thence come forth;
Thence worship comes, content and true heart's pleasure,
And full-assured trust, joy without measure,
And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth;

4






155
XXXII And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy,
And seemliness, and faithful company,
And dread of shame that will not do amiss;
For he that faithfully Love's servant is,
Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die.




160
XXXIII And that the very truth it is which I
Now say—in such belief I'll live and die;
And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice.
Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss,
If with that counsel I do e'er comply.




165
XXXIV Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair,
Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere;
For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis;
And Love in old folk a great dotage is;
Who most it useth, him 'twill most impair.




170
XXXV For thereof come all contraries to gladness;
Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness,
Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate,
Dishonour, shame, envy importunate,
Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness.




175
XXXVI Loving is aye an office of despair,
And one thing is therein which is not fair;
For whoso gets of love a little bliss,
Unless it alway stay with him, I wis
He may full soon go with an old man's hair.




180
XXXVII And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh,
For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry,
If long time from thy mate thou be, or far,
Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are;
Then shall thou raise a clamour as do I.




185
XXXVIII Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen!
The God of Love afflict thee with all teen,
For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold;
For many a one hath virtues manifold,
Who had been nought, if Love had never been.




190
XXXIX For evermore his servants Love amendeth,
And he from every blemish them defendeth;
And maketh them to burn, as in a fire,
In loyalty, and worshipful desire,
And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth.




195
XL Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still,
For Love no reason hath but his own will;—
For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy;
True lovers doth so bitterly annoy,
He lets them perish through that grievous ill.




200
XLI With such a master would I never be;
For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see,
And knows not when he hurts and when he heals;
Within this court full seldom Truth avails,
So diverse in his wilfulness is he.
E







205
XLII Then of the Nightingale did I take note,
How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought,
And said, Alas! that ever I was born,
Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,—
And with that word, she into tears burst out.




210
XLIII Alas, alas! my very heart will break,
Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak
Of Love, and of his holy services;
Now, God of Love! thou help me in some wise,
That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak.




215
XLIV And so methought I started up anon,
And to the brook I ran and got a stone,
Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast,
And he for dread did fly away full fast;
And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone.




220
XLV And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye,
Kept crying, "Farewell!—farewell, Popinjay!"
As if in scornful mockery of me;
And on I hunted him from tree to tree,
Till he was far, all out of sight, away.




225
XLVI Then straightway came the Nightingale to me,
And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee,
That thou wert near to rescue me; and now
Unto the God of Love I make a vow,
That all this May I will thy songstress be.




230<
XLVII Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said,
By this mishap no longer be dismayed,
Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me;
Yet if I live it shall amended be,
When next May comes, if I am not afraid.




235
XLVIII And one thing will I counsel thee also,
The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw;
All that she said is an outrageous lie.
Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I,
For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe.




240
XLIX Yea, hath it? use, quoth she, this medicine;
This May-time, every day before thou dine,
Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I,
Although for pain thou may'st be like to die,
Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine.




245
L And mind always that thou be good and true,
And I will sing one song, of many new,
For love of thee, as loud as I may cry;
And then did she begin this song full high,
"Beshrew all them that are in love untrue."




250
LI And soon as she had sung it to the end,
Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend;
And, God of Love, that can right well and may,
Send unto thee as mickle joy this day,
As ever he to Lover yet did send.




255
LII Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me;
I pray to God with her always to be,
And joy of love to send her evermore;
And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore,
For there is not so false a bird as she.




260
LIII Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale,
To all the Birds that lodged within that dale,
And gathered each and all into one place;
And them besought to hear her doleful case,
And thus it was that she began her tale.




265
LIV The Cuckoo—'tis not well that I should hide
How she and I did each the other chide,
And without ceasing, since it was daylight;
And now I pray you all to do me right
Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide.




270
LV Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave;
This matter asketh counsel good as grave,
For birds we are—all here together brought;
And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not;
And therefore we a Parliament will have.




275
LVI And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord,
And other Peers whose names are on record;
A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent,
And judgment there be given; or that intent
Failing, we finally shall make accord.




280
LVII And all this shall be done, without a nay,
The morrow after Saint Valentine's day,
Under a maple that is well beseen,
Before the chamber-window of the Queen,
At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay.




285
LVIII She thankèd them; and then her leave she took,
And flew into a hawthorn by that brook;
And there she sate and sung—upon that tree—
"For term of life Love shall have hold of me"—
So loudly, that I with that song awoke.




290
Unlearnèd Book and rude, as well I know,
For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence,
Who did on thee the hardiness bestow
To appear before my Lady? but a sense
Thou surely hast of her benevolence,
Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give;
For of all good she is the best alive.




295

Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness,
To show to her some pleasant meanings writ
In winning words, since through her gentiless,
Thee she accepts as for her service fit!
Oh! it repents me I have neither wit
Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give;
For of all good she is the best alive.


5





300



Beseech her meekly with all lowliness,
Though I be far from her I reverence,
To think upon my truth and stedfastness,
And to abridge my sorrow's violence,
Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience,
She of her liking proof to me would give;
For of all good she is the best alive.
305




310
L'Envoy Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness!
Luna by night, with heavenly influence
Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse,
Write, and allay, by your beneficence,
My sighs breathed forth in silence,—comfort give!
Since of all good, you are the best alive.

Explicet



Contents 1801
Main Contents



315







Variant 1:   In 1819 Wordsworth wrote the opening stanza of his version of The Cuckoo and the Nightingale, in the album of Mrs. Calvert at Keswick, thus:
The God of Love—ah, benedicite!
How mighty and how great a Lord is He!
High can he make the heart that's low and poor,
And high hearts low—through pains that they endure,
And hard hearts, He can make them kind and free.




W. W., Nov. 27, 1819.
return


Variant 2:  
1842
... have heard ...
1841
return


Variant 3:  
1842
... sorrow's ...
1841
return


Variant 4:  
1842
... gentleness ...
1841
return


Variant 5:  
1842
... gentleness, ...
1841
return





Footnote A:   The following extracts from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal show the date of the composition of this poem.
"Sunday, 6th December 1801. A very fine beautiful sun-shiny morning. William worked a while at Chaucer; then he set forward to walk into Easdale.... In the afternoon I read Chaucer aloud."

"Monday, 7th.... William at work with Chaucer, The God of Love...."

"8th November ... William worked at The Cuckoo and the Nightingale till he was tired."

"Wednesday, December 9th. I read Palemon and Arcite, William writing out his alterations of Chaucer's Cuckoo and Nightingale."
The question as to whether The Cuckoo and the Nightingale was written by Chaucer or not, may be solved either way without affecting the literary value of Wordsworth's "modernisation" of it.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  In The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised.—Ed.
return


Footnote C:  
"In The Cuckoo and Nightingale, a poem of the third of May—a date corresponding to the mid-May, the very heart of May according to our modern reckoning—the poet after a wakeful night rises, and goes forth at dawn, and comes to a 'laund' or plain 'of white and green.'
'So feire oon had I nevere in bene,
The grounde was grene, y poudred with daysé,
The floures and the gras ilike al hie,
Al grene and white, was nothing elles sene.'
Nothing seen but the short green grass and the white daisies,—grass and daisies being of equal height. Unfortunately in Tyrwhitt's text the description is nonsensical,
'The flowres and the greves like hie.'
The daisy flowers are as high as the groves! Wordsworth retained the groves, but refused to make daisies of equal height with them.
'Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, All green and white; and nothing else was seen.'"
(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society. No. III.)—Ed.
return


Footnote D:  
"In Chaucer's poem, after 'the cuckoo, bird unholy,' has said his evil say, the Nightingale breaks forth 'so lustily,'
'That with her clere voys she made rynge
Thro out alle the grene wode wide,'
Wordsworth has taken a poet's licence with these lines:
'I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,
That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
Echoing through all the green wood wide.'
This 'loud rioting' is Wordsworth's, not Chaucer's; and it belongs, as it were, to that other passage of his:
'O Nightingale, thou surely art
A creature of a fiery heart,
These notes of thine—they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
Had helped thee to a Valentine.'"
(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.
return


Footnote E:   From a manuscript in the Bodleian, as are also stanzas 44 and 45— W. W. (1841),

which are necessary to complete the sense—W. W. (added in 1842).
return


Contents 1801
Main Contents




Troilus and Cresida

Translated 1801.—Published 1841A






The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Next morning Troilus began to clear
His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day,
And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear,
For love of God, full piteously did say,
We must the Palace see of Cresida;
For since we yet may have no other feast,
Let us behold her Palace at the least!

And therewithal to cover his intent
A cause he found into the Town to go,
And they right forth to Cresid's Palace went;
But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe,
Him thought his sorrowful heart would break in two;
For when he saw her doors fast bolted all,
Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall.

Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold,
How shut was every window of the place,
Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold;
For which, with changèd, pale, and deadly face,
Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace;
And on his purpose bent so fast to ride,
That no wight his continuance espied.

Then said he thus,—O Palace desolate!
O house of houses, once so richly dight!
O Palace empty and disconsolate!
Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light;
O Palace whilom day that now art night,
Thou ought'st to fall and I to die; since she
Is gone who held us both in sovereignty.

O, of all houses once the crownèd boast!
Palace illumined with the sun of bliss;
O ring of which the ruby now is lost,
O cause of woe, that cause has been of bliss:
Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss
Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout;
Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out!

Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye,
With changed face, and piteous to behold;
And when he might his time aright espy,
Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told
Both his new sorrow and his joys of old,
So piteously, and with so dead a hue,
That every wight might on his sorrow rue.

Forth from the spot he rideth up and down,
And everything to his rememberance
Came as he rode by places of the town
Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once.
Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance,
And in that Temple she with her bright eyes,
My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise.

And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I
Heard my own Cresid's laugh; and once at play
I yonder saw her eke full blissfully;
And yonder once she unto me 'gan say—
Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray!
And there so graciously did me behold,
That hers unto the death my heart I hold.

And at the corner of that self-same house
Heard I my most beloved Lady dear,
So womanly, with voice melodious
Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear,
That in my soul methinks I yet do hear
The blissful sound; and in that very place
My Lady first me took unto her grace.

O blissful God of Love! then thus he cried,
When I the process have in memory,
How thou hast wearied me on every side,
Men thence a book might make, a history;
What need to seek a conquest over me,
Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy
Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy?

Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire
Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief;
Now mercy, Lord! thou know'st well I desire
Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief;
And live and die I will in thy belief;
For which I ask for guerdon but one boon,
That Cresida again thou send me soon.

Constrain her heart as quickly to return,
As thou dost mine with longing her to see,
Then know I well that she would not sojourn.
Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be
Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee,
As Juno was unto the Theban blood,
From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude.

And after this he to the gate did go
Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was;
And up and down there went, and to and fro,
And to himself full oft he said, alas!
From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass.
O would the blissful God now for his joy,
I might her see again coming to Troy!

And up to yonder hill was I her guide;
Alas, and there I took of her my leave;
Yonder I saw her to her Father ride,
For very grief of which my heart shall cleave;—
And hither home I came when it was eve;
And here I dwell an outcast from all joy,
And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy.

And of himself did he imagine oft,
That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less
Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft
Men said, what may it be, can no one guess
Why Troilus hath all this heaviness?
All which he of himself conceited wholly
Out of his weakness and his melancholy.

Another time he took into his head,
That every wight, who in the way passed by,
Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said,
I am right sorry Troilus will die:
And thus a day or two drove wearily;
As ye have heard; such life 'gan he to lead
As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread.

For which it pleased him in his songs to show
The occasion of his woe, as best he might;
And made a fitting song, of words but few,
Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light;
And when he was removed from all men's sight,
With a soft night voice, he of his Lady dear,
That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear.

O star, of which I lost have all the light,
With a sore heart well ought I to bewail,
That ever dark in torment, night by night,
Toward my death with wind I steer and sail;
For which upon the tenth night if thou fail
With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour,
My ship and me Charybdis will devour.

As soon as he this song had thus sung through,
He fell again into his sorrows old;
And every night, as was his wont to do,
Troilus stood the bright moon to behold;
And all his trouble to the moon he told,
And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew,
I shall be glad if all the world be true.

Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow,
When hence did journey my bright Lady dear,
That cause is of my torment and my sorrow;
For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear,
For love of God, run fast above thy sphere;
For when thy horns begin once more to spring,
Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring.

The day is more, and longer every night
Than they were wont to be—for he thought so;
And that the sun did take his course not right,
By longer way than he was wont to go;
And said, I am in constant dread I trow,
That Phäeton his son is yet alive,
His too fond father's car amiss to drive.

Upon the walls fast also would he walk,
To the end that he the Grecian host might see;
And ever thus he to himself would talk:—
Lo! yonder is my own bright Lady free;
Or yonder is it that the tents must be;
And thence does come this air which is so sweet,
That in my soul I feel the joy of it.

And certainly this wind, that more and more
By moments thus increaseth in my face,
Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore;
I prove it thus; for in no other space
Of all this town, save only in this place,
Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain;
It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain?

A weary while in pain he tosseth thus,
Till fully past and gone was the ninth night;
And ever at his side stood Pandarus,
Who busily made use of all his might
To comfort him, and make his heart more light;
Giving him always hope, that she the morrow
Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow.



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Variant 1:  
1842
... burst
1841
return


Variant 2:  
1842
... hast ...
1841
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Variant 3:  
1842
... his eye,
1841
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Variant 4:  
1842
... whose words ...
1841
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Variant 5:  
1842
With a soft voice, ...
1841
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Variant 6:  
1842
... mine ...
1841
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Variant 7:  
The "even" of 1841 is evidently a misprint.
return


Variant 8:  
1842
... too light;
1841
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Footnote A:   In The Poems of Geoffrey Chaucer Modernised. It is an extract from Troilus and Cressida, book v. ll. 518-686.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  
"Chaucer's text is:
'And therwithalle his meynye for to blende
A cause he fonde in toune for to go.'
'His meynye for to blende,' i. e. to keep his household or his domestics in the dark. But Wordsworth writes:
'And therewithal to cover his intent,'
possibly mistaking 'meynye' for 'meaning'."
(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.
return


Footnote C:  
"When Troilus sees the shut windows and desolate aspect of his lady's house, his face grows blanched, and he rides past in haste, so fast, says Wordsworth,
'That no wight his continuance espied.'
But in Chaucer he rides fast that his white face may not be noticed:
'And as God wolde he gan so faste ride
That no wight of his countenance espied.'"
(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.
return


Footnote D:   In Chaucer "werreyed" = warred on = fought against.—Ed.
return


Footnote E:  
"'Toward my death with wind I steer and sail.'
This is Urry's version, but Chaucer's text is,
'Toward my death, with wind in stern I sail,'
Troilus' bark careering towards death, with all sails set, before a fierce stern-wind."
(Professor Dowden, in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society, No. III.)—Ed.
return


Footnote F:  In Chaucer "aboute" = around.—Ed.
return


Contents 1801
Main Contents






Poems on the Naming of Places end of Volume II: 1801 1802
Main Contents






Wordsworth's Poetical Works, Volume 2: 1802



Edited by William Knight

1896



Table of Contents






1802

The Lyrical Ballads and Sonnets which follow were written in 1802; but during that year Wordsworth continued mainly to work at The Excursion, as the following extracts from his sister's Journal indicate:
"Feb. 1, 1802.—William worked hard at The Pedlar, and tired himself.

2nd Feb.—Wm. worked at The Pedlar. I read aloud the 11th book of Paradise Lost.

Thursday, 4th.—William thought a little about The Pedlar.

5th.—Wm. sate up late at The Pedlar.

7th.—W. was working at his poem. Wm. read The Pedlar, thinking it was done. But lo! ... it was uninteresting, and must be altered."
Similar records occur each day in the Journal from the 10th to the 14th Feb. 1802.—Ed.


Contents 1802
Main Contents




The Sailor's Mother

Composed March 11th and 12th, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written in Town-end, Grasmere. I met this woman near the Wishing-gate, on the high road that then led from Grasmere to Ambleside. Her appearance was exactly as here described, and such was her account, nearly to the letter.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
One morning (raw it was and wet—
A foggy day in winter time)
A Woman on the road I met,
Not old, though something past her prime:
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;
Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair:
She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it," said I, "that you bear,
Beneath the covert of your Cloak,
Protected from this cold damp air?"
She answered, soon as she the question heard,
"A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,
"I had a Son, who many a day
Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;
In Denmark he was cast away:
And I have travelled weary miles to see
If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

"The bird and cage they both were his:
'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim
He kept it: many voyages
The singing-bird had gone with him;
When last he sailed, he left the bird behind;
From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

"He to a fellow-lodger's care
Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety;—there
I found it when my Son was dead;
And now, God help me for my little wit!
I bear [8] it with me, Sir;—he took so much delight in it."



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Variant 1:  
1815
... in ...
1807
return


Variant 2:  
1836
... I woke,
With the first word I had to spare
I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak
What's that which on your arm you bear?"



1807
"What treasure," said I,"do you bear,
Beneath the covert of your Cloak
Protected from the cold damp air?"


1820
return


Variant 3:  
1807
"I had a Son,—the waves might roar,
He feared them not, a Sailor gay!
But he will cross the waves no more:


1820
... cross the deep ...
1827
The text of 1832 returns to that of 1807a.
return


Variant 4:  
1827
And I have been as far as Hull, to see
What clothes he might have left, or other property.
1807
And I have travelled far as Hull, to see
1815
And I have travelled many miles to see
If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

1820
return


Variant 5:  
1845
This Singing-bird hath gone ...
1807
... had gone ...
1820
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Variant 6:  
1827
As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind.
1807
return


Variant 7:  
1827
Till he came back again; and there
1807
return


Variant 8:  
1827
I trail ...
1807
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Sub-Footnote a:   This return, in 1832, to the original text of the poem was due to Barren Field's criticism, the justice of which Wordsworth admitted.—Ed.
return





Note:   In the Wordsworth household this poem went by the name of "The Singing Bird" as well as The Sailor's Mother.
"Thursday (March 11th).—A fine morning. William worked at the poem of The Singing Bird. ..."

"Friday (March 12th).—William finished his poem of The Singing Bird."
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.)—Ed.


Contents 1802
Main Contents




Alice Fell; or, PovertyA

Composed March 12th and 13th, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written to gratify Mr. Graham of Glasgow, brother of the author of The Sabbath. He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a man of ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and he urged me to put it into verse, for humanity's sake. The humbleness, meanness if you like, of the subject, together with the homely mode of treating it, brought upon me a world of ridicule by the small critics, so that in policy I excluded it from many editions of my poems, till it was restored at the request of some of my friends, in particular my son-in-law, Edward Quillinan.—I. F.]

It was only excluded from the editions of 1820, 1827, and 1832. In the edition of 1807 it was placed amongst a group of "Poems composed during a Tour, chiefly on foot." In 1815, in 1836, and afterwards, it was included in the group "referring to the Period of Childhood."

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, the following reference to this poem occurs:
"Feb. 16, 1802.—Mr. Graham said he wished William had been with him the other day. He was riding in a post-chaise, and he heard a strange cry that he could not understand. The sound continued, and he called to the chaise-driver to stop. It was a little girl that was crying as if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it hung there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr. Graham took her into the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the child's misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags. It had been a miserable cloak before; but she had no other, and it was the greatest sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell. She had no parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town Mr. G. left money to buy her a new cloak."

"Friday (March 12).—In the evening after tea William wrote Alice Fell."

"Saturday Morning (13th March).—William finished Alice Fell...."
Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
The post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;
When, as we hurried on, my ear
Was smitten with a startling sound.

As if the wind blew many ways,
I heard the sound,—and more and more;
It seemed to follow with the chaise,
And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy called out;
He stopped his horses at the word,
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast
The horses scampered through the rain;
But, hearing soon upon the blast
The cry, I bade him halt again.

Forthwith alighting on the ground,
"Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?"
And there a little Girl I found,
Sitting behind the chaise, alone.

"My cloak!" no other word she spake,
But loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her innocent heart would break;
And down from off her seat she leapt.

"What ails you, child?"—she sobbed "Look here!"
I saw it in the wheel entangled,
A weather-beaten rag as e'er
From any garden scare-crow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke,
It hung, nor could at once be freed;
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,
A miserable rag indeed!

"And whither are you going, child,
To-night along these lonesome ways?"
"To Durham," answered she, half wild—
"Then come with me into the chaise."

Insensible to all relief
Sat the poor girl, and forth did send
Sob after sob, as if her grief
Could never, never have an end.

"My child, in Durham do you dwell?"
She checked herself in her distress,
And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless.

"And I to Durham, Sir, belong."
Again, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tattered cloak!

The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,
As if she had lost her only friend
She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern-door we post;
Of Alice and her grief I told;
And I gave money to the host,
To buy a new cloak for the old.

"And let it be of duffil grey,
As warm a cloak as man can sell!"
Proud creature was she the next day,
The little orphan, Alice Fell!



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Variant 1:  
1845
When suddenly I seem'd to hear
A moan, a lamentable sound.

1807
return


Variant 2:  
1845
And soon I heard upon the blast
The voice, and bade ....

1807
return


Variant 3:  
1845
Said I, alighting on the ground,
"What can it be, this piteous moan?"

1807
Forthwith alighted on the ground
To learn what voice the piteous moan
Had made, a little girl I found,


C.
return


Variant 4:  
1836
"My Cloak!" the word was last and first,
And loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her very heart would burst;


1807
"My cloak, my cloak" she cried, and spake
No other word, but loudly wept,

C.
return


Variant 5:  
1815
... off the Chaise ...
1807
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Variant 6:  
1845
'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;
Her help she lent, and with good heed
Together we released the Cloak;


1807
... between ...
1840
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Variant 7:  
1836
A wretched, wretched rag indeed!
1807
return


Variant 8:  
1845
She sate like one past all relief;
Sob after sob she forth did send
In wretchedness, as if her grief


1807
return


Variant 9:  
1836
And then, ...
1807
return


Variant 10:  
1836
... she'd lost ...
1807
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Footnote A:   There was no sub-title in the edition of 1807.—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, referring to the revisions of this and other poems:
"I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their malice; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls."
See Letters of Charles Lamb (Ainger), vol. i. p. 283.—Ed.


Contents 1802
Main Contents




Beggars

Composed March 13th and 14th, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Met, and described to me by my sister, near the quarry at the head of Rydal LakeA, a place still a chosen resort of vagrants travelling with their families.—I. F.]

The following are Dorothy Wordsworth's references to this poem in her Grasmere Journal. They justify the remark of the late Bishop of Lincoln,
"his poems are sometimes little more than poetical versions of her descriptions of the objects which she had seen, and he treated them as seen by himself."
(See Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. i. pp. 180-1.)
"Saturday (March 13, 1802).—William wrote the poem of the Beggar Woman, taken from a woman whom I had seen in May (now nearly two years ago), when John and he were at Gallow Hill. I sat with him at intervals all the morning, and took down his stanzas. After tea I read W. the account I had written of the little boy belonging to the tall woman: and an unlucky thing it was, for he could not escape from those very words, and so he could not write the poem. He left it unfinished, and went tired to bed. In our walk from Rydal he had got warmed with the subject, and had half cast the poem."

"Sunday Morning (March 14). —William had slept badly. He got up at 9 o'clock, but before he rose he had finished the Beggar Boy."
The following is the "account" written in her Journal on Tuesday, May 23, 1800:
"A very tall woman, tall much beyond the measure of tall women, called at the door. She had on a very long brown cloak, and a very white cap, without bonnet. Her face was brown, but it had plainly once been fair. She led a little barefooted child about two years old by the hand, and said her husband, who was a tinker, was gone before with the other children. I gave her a piece of bread. Afterwards, on my road to Ambleside, beside the bridge at Rydal, I saw her husband sitting at the roadside, his two asses standing beside him, and the two young children at play upon the grass. The man did not beg. I passed on, and about a quarter of a mile farther I saw two boys before me, one about ten, the other about eight years old, at play, chasing a butterfly. They were wild figures, not very ragged, but without shoes and stockings. The hat of the elder was wreathed round with yellow flowers; the younger, whose hat was only a rimless crown, had stuck it round with laurel leaves. They continued at play till I drew very near, and then they addressed me with the begging cant and the whining voice of sorrow. I said, 'I served your mother this morning' (the boys were so like the woman who had called at our door that I could not be mistaken). 'O,' says the elder, 'you could not serve my mother, for she's dead, and my father's in at the next town; he's a potter.' I persisted in my assertion, and that I would give them nothing. Says the elder, 'Come, let's away,' and away they flew like lightning. They had, however, sauntered so long in their road that they did not reach Ambleside before me, and I saw them go up to Mathew Harrison's house with their wallet upon the elder's shoulder, and creeping with a beggar's complaining foot. On my return through Ambleside I met, in the street, the mother driving her asses, in the two panniers of one of which were the two little children, whom she was chiding and threatening with a wand with which she used to drive on her asses, while the little things hung in wantonness over the pannier's edge. The woman had told me in the morning that she was of Scotland, which her accent fully proved, and that she had lived (I think at Wigtown); that they could not keep a house, and so they travelled."
This was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
She had a tall man's height or more;
Her face from summer's noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, but she wore
A mantle, to her very feet
Descending with a graceful flow,
And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow.

Her skin was of Egyptian brown:
Haughty, as if her eye had seen
Its own light to a distance thrown,
She towered, fit person for a Queen
To lead those ancient Amazonian files;
Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.

Advancing, forth she stretched her hand
And begged an alms with doleful plea
That ceased not; on our English land
Such woes, I knew, could never be;
And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature
Was beautiful to see—a weed of glorious feature.

I left her, and pursued my way;
And soon before me did espy
A pair of little Boys at play,
Chasing a crimson butterfly;
The taller followed with his hat in hand,
Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land.

The other wore a rimless crown
With leaves of laurel stuck about;
And, while both followed up and down,
Each whooping with a merry shout,
In their fraternal features I could trace
Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face.

Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit
For finest tasks of earth or air:
Wings let them have, and they might flit
Precursors to Aurora's car,
Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween,
To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.

They dart across my path—but lo,
Each ready with a plaintive whine!
Said I, "not half an hour ago
Your Mother has had alms of mine."
"That cannot be," one answered—"she is dead:"—
I looked reproof—they saw—but neither hung his head.

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day."—
"Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie;
It was your Mother, as I say!"
And, in the twinkling of an eye,
"Come! come!" cried one, and without more ado,
Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew!



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7

8


9



10




11


12



13



















B


































C




5





10





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20





25




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35





40





45








Variant 1:  
1845
She had a tall Man's height, or more;
No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;
A long drab-colour'd Cloak she wore,
A Mantle reaching to her feet:
What other dress she had I could not know;
Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow.





1807
Before me as the Wanderer stood,
No bonnet screened her from the heat;
Nor claimed she service from the hood
Of a blue mantle, to her feet
Depending with a graceful flow;
Only she wore a cap pure as unsullied snow.





1827
Before my eyes a Wanderer stood;
Her face from summer's noon-day heat
Nor bonnet shaded, nor the hood
Of that blue cloak which to her feet
Depended with a graceful flow;
Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow.





1832
No bonnet shaded, nor the hood
Of the blue cloak ...

1836
She had a tall man's height or more;
And while, 'mid April's noontide heat,
A long blue cloak the vagrant wore,
A mantle reaching to her feet,
No bonnet screened her lofty brow,
Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow.





C.
She had a tall man's height or more;
A garment for her stature meet,
And for a vagrant life, she wore
A mantle reaching to her feet.
Nor hood, nor bonnet screened her lofty brow,





C.
return


Variant 2:  
1827
In all my walks, through field or town,
Such Figure had I never seen:
Her face was of Egyptian brown:
Fit person was she for a Queen,



1807
Such figure had I never seen
In all my walks through field or town,
Fit person seemed she for a Queen,


C.
return


Variant 3:  
1836
To head ...
1807
return


Variant 4:  
1845
Before me begging did she stand,
Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
Grief after grief:—on English Land
Such woes I knew could never be;



1807
Her suit no faltering scruples checked;
Forth did she pour, in current free,
Tales that could challenge no respect
But from a blind credulity;



1827
She begged an alms; no scruple checked
The current of her ready plea,
Words that could challenge ...


1832
Before me begging did she stand
And boldly urged a doleful plea,
Grief after grief, on English land
Such woes I knew could never be.



C.
return


Variant 5:  
1807
With yellow flowers around, as with a golden band.
C.
return


Variant 6:  
1827
And they both ...
1807
return


Variant 7:  
1820
Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old;
And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold.

1807
return


Variant 8:  
This stanza was added in the edition of 1827.
return


Variant 9:  
1836
Precursors of ...
1827
return


Variant 10:  
1827
They bolted on me thus, and lo!
1807
return


Variant 11:  
1827
"Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."
1807
return


Variant 12:  
1845
"Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie;
1807
... Heaven hears that rash reply;
1827
The text of 1807 was resumed in 1836.
return


Variant 13:  
1827
... they both together flew.
1807
... the thoughtless vagrants flew.
C.
return





Footnote A:   The spot is easily identified, as the quarry still exists.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   In the MS. of this poem (1807) the words, "a weed of glorious feature," are placed within inverted commas. The quotation is from Spenser's Muiopotmos (The Fate of the Butterflie), stanza 27; and is important, as it affects the meaning of the phrase. It is curious that Wordsworth dropped the commas in his subsequent editions.—Ed.
return


Footnote C:   In Wordsworth's letter to Barron Field, of 24th October 1828 (see the volumes containing his correspondence), a detailed account is given of the reasons which had led him to alter the text of this poem.—Ed.
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Contents 1802
Main Contents




Sequel to the Foregoing

Composed Many Years After

Composed 1817.—Published 1827

In the edition of 1840 the year assigned to this Sequel is 1817. It does not occur in the edition of 1820, but was first published in 1827. It was one of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Where are they now, those wanton Boys?
For whose free range the dædal earth
Was filled with animated toys,
And implements of frolic mirth;
With tools for ready wit to guide;
And ornaments of seemlier pride,
More fresh, more bright, than princes wear;
For what one moment flung aside,
Another could repair;
What good or evil have they seen
Since I their pastime witnessed here,
Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer?
I ask—but all is dark between!

They met me in a genial hour,
When universal nature breathed
As with the breath of one sweet flower,—
A time to overrule the power
Of discontent, and check the birth
Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife,
The most familiar bane of life
Since parting Innocence bequeathed
Mortality to Earth!
Soft clouds, the whitest of the year,
Sailed through the sky—the brooks ran clear;
The lambs from rock to rock were bounding;
With songs the budded groves resounding;
And to my heart are still endeared
The thoughts with which it then was cheered;
The faith which saw that gladsome pair
Walk through the fire with unsinged hair.
Or, if such faith must needs deceive—
Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace,
Associates in that eager chase;
Ye, who within the blameless mind
Your favourite seat of empire find—
Kind Spirits! may we not believe
That they, so happy and so fair
Through your sweet influence, and the care
Of pitying Heaven, at least were free
From touch of deadly injury?
Destined, whate'er their earthly doom,
For mercy and immortal bloom?



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Variant 1:  
Spirits of beauty and of grace!
Associates in that eager chase;
Ye, by a course to nature true,
The sterner judgment can subdue;
And waken a relenting smile
When she encounters fraud or guile;
And sometimes ye can charm away
The inward mischief, or allay,
Ye, who within the blameless mind
Your favourite seat of empire find!
The above is a separate stanza in the editions of 1827 and 1832. Only the first two and the last two lines of this stanza were retained in the edition of 1836, and were then transferred to the place they occupy in the final text.—Ed.
return


Variant 2:  
1836
And to my heart is still endeared
The faith with which ...

1827
return


Variant 3:  
1836
... such thoughts ...
1827
return





Footnote A:   This and the three following lines were placed here in the edition of 1836. See note to the previous page.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Contents 1802
Main Contents




To a Butterfly (1)

Composed March 14, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. My sister and I were parted immediately after the death of our mother, who died in 1778, both being very young.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood." —Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Stay near me—do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:—with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.



Note
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A









5




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15








Footnote A:   In the MS. for the edition of 1807 the transcriber (not W. W.) wrote "Dorothy." This, Wordsworth erased, putting in "Emmeline."—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   The text of this poem was never changed. It refers to days of childhood spent at Cockermouth before 1778. "My sister Emmeline" is Dorothy Wordsworth. In her Grasmere Journal, of Sunday, March 14, 1802, the following occurs:
"While we were at breakfast he" (William) "wrote the poem To a Butterfly. He ate not a morsel, but sate with his shirt neck unbuttoned, and his waistcoat open when he did it. The thought first came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we both always felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to chase them a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off their wings, and did not catch them. He told me how he used to kill all the white ones when he went to school, because they were Frenchmen. Mr. Simpson came in just as he was finishing the poem. After he was gone, I wrote it down, and the other poems, and I read them all over to him.... William began to try to alter The Butterfly, and tired himself."
Compare the later poem To a Butterfly (2) (April 20), p. 297. —Ed.


Contents 1802
Main Contents




The Emigrant Mother

Composed March 16th and 17th, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Suggested by what I have noticed in more than one French fugitive during the time of the French Revolution. If I am not mistaken the lines were composed at Sockburn when I was on a visit to Mary and her brothers.—I. F.]

In the editions of 1807 and 1815, this poem had no distinctive title; but in the Wordsworth circle, it was known from the year 1802 as The Emigrant Mother, and at least one copy was transcribed with this title in 1802. It was first published under that name in 1820. It was revised and altered in 1820, 1827, 1832, 1836, and more especially in 1845.

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following entries occur:
"Tuesday (March 16).—William went up into the orchard, and wrote a part of The Emigrant Mother."

"Wednesday.—William went up into the orchard, and finished the poem.... I went and sate with W., and walked backwards and forwards in the orchard till dinner-time. He read me his poem."
This poem was included among those "founded on the Affections."—Ed.





The Poem


stanza text variant footnote line number
Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.
1 / 2
3
5
Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say:
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,
My song the workings of her heart expressed.



4
5


10




I "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine
And sure a mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear mother's far away,
At labour in the harvest field:
Thy little sister is at play;—
What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me!
15




20



II "Across the waters I am come,
And I have left a babe at home:
A long, long way of land and sea!
Come to me—I'm no enemy:
I am the same who at thy side
Sate yesterday, and made a nest
For thee, sweet Baby!—thou hast tried,
Thou know'st the pillow of my breast;
Good, good art thou:—alas! to me
Far more than I can be to thee.
25




30



III "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie;
An infant thou, a mother I!
Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
Mine art thou—spite of these my tears.
Alas! before I left the spot,
My baby and its dwelling-place;
The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not
Be shed upon an infant's face,
It was unlucky'—no, no, no;
No truth is in them who say so!
35




40



IV "My own dear Little-one will sigh,
Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.
'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
And you may see his hour is come.'
Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
And countenance like a summer's day,
They would have hopes of him;—and then
I should behold his face again!
45




50



V "'Tis gone—like dreams that we forget;
There was a smile or two—yet—yet
I can remember them, I see
The smiles, worth all the world to me.
Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;
Thou troublest me with strange alarms;
Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own;
I cannot keep thee in my arms;
For they confound me;—where—where is
That last, that sweetest smile of his?

6




7


8
55




60



VI "Oh! how I love thee!—we will stay
Together here this one half day.
My sister's child, who bears my name,
From France to sheltering England came;
She with her mother crossed the sea;
The babe and mother near me dwell:
Yet does my yearning heart to thee
Turn rather, though I love her well:
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any child more dear!



9



10

65




70



VII "—I cannot help it; ill intent
I've none, my pretty Innocent!
I weep—I know they do thee wrong,
These tears—and my poor idle tongue.
Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek
How cold it is! but thou art good; So
Thine eyes are on me—they would speak,
I think, to help me if they could.
Blessings upon that soft, warm face,
My heart again is in its place!







11
12
75




80



VIII "While thou art mine, my little Love,
This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
Contentment, hope, and mother's glee,
I seem to find them all in thee:
Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;
I'll call thee by my darling's name;
Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
Thy features seem to me the same;
His little sister thou shalt be;
And, when once more my home I see,
I'll tell him many tales of Thee."



Contents 1802
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13
14






85




90




95






Variant 1:  
1807
This Mother ...
MS.
return


Variant 2:  
1845
... English ...
1807
return


Variant 3:  
1827
... did ...
1807
return


Variant 4:  
1845
Once did I see her clasp the Child about,
And take it to herself; and I, next day,
Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out
Such things as she unto this Child might say:



1807
Once did I see her take with fond embrace
This Infant to herself; and I, next day,
Endeavoured in my native tongue to trace
Such things as she unto the Child might say:



1820
Once, having seen her take with fond embrace
This Infant to herself, I framed a lay,
Endeavouring, in my native tongue, to trace


1827
return


Variant 5:  
1845
And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd,
1807
return


Variant 6:  
1820
'Tis gone—forgotten—let me do
My best—there was a smile or two,
1807
return


Variant 7:  
1827
... sweet ...
1807
return


Variant 8:  
1836
For they confound me: as it is,
I have forgot those smiles of his.

1807
For they bewilder me—even now
His smiles are lost,—I know not how!

1820
By those bewildering glances crost
In which the light of his is losta.

1827
return


Variant 9:  
1827
From France across the Ocean came;
1807
return


Variant 10:  
1845
My Darling, she is not to me
What thou art! though I love her well:

1807
But to my heart she cannot be
1836
return


Variant 11:  
1807
And I grow happy while I speak,
Kiss, kiss me, Baby, thou art good.

MS.
return


Variant 12:  
1820
... that quiet face,
1807
return


Variant 13:  
1807
A Joy, a Comforter thou art;
Sunshine and pleasure to my heart;
And love and hope and mother's glee,


MS.
return


Variant 14:  
1807
My yearnings are allayed by thee,
My heaviness is turned to glee.

MS.
return





Sub-Footnote a:   In a letter to Barron Field (24th Oct. 1828), Wordsworth says that his substitution of the text of 1827 for that of 1807, was due to the objections of Coleridge.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Contents 1802
Main Contents




To the Cuckoo

Composed 1802.—Published 1807

[Composed in the Orchard at Town-end, 1804.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!



Note
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1



2




3




A







5





10





15





20






25





30







Variant 1:  
1845
While I am lying on the grass,
I hear thy restless shout:
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
About, and all about!



1807
Thy loud note smites my ear!—
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near!


1815
Thy loud note smites my ear!
It seems to fill the whole air's space,
At once far off and near!


1820
Thy twofold shout I hear,
That seems to fill the whole air's space,
As loud far off as neara.


1827
return


Variant 2:  
1827
To me, no Babbler with a tale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale


1807
I hear thee babbling to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers;
And unto me thou bring'st a tale


1815
But unto me ....
1820
return


Variant 3:  
1836
No Bird; but an invisible Thing,
1807
return





Footnote A:  
"Vox et praterea nihil. See Lipsius 'of the Nightingale.'"
Barron Field.—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Sub-Footnote a:   Barron Field remonstrated with Wordsworth about this reading, and he agreed to restore that of 1820; saying, at the same time, that he had "made the change to record a fact observed by himself."—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   In the chronological lists of his poems, published in 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth left a blank opposite this one, in the column containing the year of composition. From 1836 to 1849, the date assigned by him was 1804. But in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs under date Tuesday, 22nd March 1802:
"A mild morning. William worked at the Cuckoo poem.... At the closing in of day, went to sit in the orchard. William came to me, and walked backwards and forwards. W. repeated the poem to me. I left him there; and in 20 minutes he came in, rather tired with attempting to write."

"Friday (March 25).—A beautiful morning. William worked at The Cuckoo."
It is therefore evident that it belongs to the year 1802; although it may have been altered and readjusted in 1804. The connection of the seventh stanza of this poem with the first of that which follows it, "My heart leaps up," etc., and of both with the Ode, Intimations of Immortality (vol. viii.), is obvious.—Ed.


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Main Contents




"My heart leaps up when I behold"

Composed March 26, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood." In 1807 it was No. 4 of the series called "Moods of my own Mind."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.



Note
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A





5









Footnote A:   Compare Milton's phrase in Paradise Regained (book iv. l. 220):
'The childhood shews the man,
As morning shews the day.'
Dryden's All for Love, act IV. scene I:
'Men are but children of a larger growth.'
And Pope's Essay on Man, Ep. iv. l. 175:
'The boy and man an individual makes.'
Also Chatterton's Fragment (Aldine edition, vol. 1. p. 132):
'Nature in the infant marked the man.'
Ed.
return to footnote mark








Note:  
"March 26, 1802.—While I was getting into bed he" (W.) "wrote The Rainbow."

"May 14th.— ... William very nervous. After he was in bed, haunted with altering The Rainbow."
(Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal.) This poem was known familiarly in the household as "The Rainbow," although not printed under that title. The text was never changed.

In The Friend, vol. i. p. 58 (ed. 1818), Coleridge writes:
"Men laugh at the falsehoods imposed on them during their childhood, because they are not good and wise enough to contemplate the past in the present, and so to produce that continuity in their self-consciousness, which Nature has made the law of their animal life. Men are ungrateful to others, only when they have ceased to look back on their former selves with joy and tenderness. They exist in fragments."
He then quotes the above poem, and adds:
"I am informed that these lines have been cited as a specimen of despicable puerility. So much the worse for the citer; not willingly in his presence would I behold the sun setting behind our mountains.... But let the dead bury their dead! The poet sang for the living.... I was always pleased with the motto placed under the figure of the rosemary in old herbals:
'Sus, apage! Haud tibi spiro.'"
Compare the passage in The Excursion (book ix. l. 36) beginning:
'... Ah! why in age
Do we revert so fondly, etc.'
also that in The Prelude (book v. l. 507) beginning:
'Our childhood sits.'


Contents 1802
Main Contents




Written in March, while resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brothers Water

Composed April 16, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Extempore. This little poem was a favourite with Joanna Baillie.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
The Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The Ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!



Note
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A








5




10




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20






Footnote A:   This line was an afterthought.—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   The text of this poem was never altered. It was not "written in March" (as the title states), but on the 16th of April (Good Friday) 1802. The bridge referred to crosses Goldrill Beck, a little below Hartsop in Patterdale. The following, from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, records the walk from Ullswater, over Kirkstone Pass, to Ambleside:
"Friday, 16th April (Good Friday).—... When we came to the foot of Brothers Water, I left William sitting on the bridge, and went along the path on the right side of the lake through the wood. I was delighted with what I saw: the water under the boughs of the bare old trees, the simplicity of the mountains, and the exquisite beauty of the path. There was one grey cottage. I repeated The Glowworm as I walked along. I hung over the gate, and thought I could have stayed for ever. When I returned, I found William writing a poem descriptive of the sights and sounds we saw and heard. There was the gentle flowing of the stream, the glittering lively lake, green fields, without a living creature to be seen on them; behind us, a flat pasture with forty-two cattle feeding; to our left, the road leading to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone on the bare roofs. The people were at work, ploughing, harrowing, and sowing; lasses working; a dog barking now and then; cocks crowing, birds twittering; the snow in patches at the top of the highest hills; yellow palms, purple and green twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering stems quite bare. The hawthorn a bright green, with black stems under the oak. The moss of the oaks glossy.... As we went up the vale of Brothers Water, more and more cattle feeding, a hundred of them. William finished his poem before we got to the foot of Kirkstone. There were hundreds of cattle in the vale.... The walk up Kirkstone was very interesting. The becks among the rocks were all alive. William shewed me the little mossy streamlet which he had before loved, when he saw its bright green track in the snow. The view above Ambleside very beautiful. There we sate, and looked down on the green vale. We watched the crows at a little distance from us become white as silver, as they flew in the sunshine; and, when they went still farther, they looked like shapes of water passing over the green fields."
Ed.


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Main Contents




The Redbreast chasing the ButterflyA

Composed April 18, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Observed, as described, in the then beautiful orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of the Fancy."

In some editions this poem is assigned to the year 1806; but, in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs, under date "Sunday, 18th" (April 1802):
"A mild grey morning with rising vapours. We sate in the orchard. William wrote the poem on the Robin and the Butterfly.... W. met me at Rydal with the conclusion of the poem to the Robin. I read it to him in bed. We left out some lines."
Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Art thou the bird whom Man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;
The bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn-winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,
And Russia far inland?
The bird, that by some name or other
All men who know thee call their brother,
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.
—If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,
Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;
Can this be the bird, to man so good,
That, after their bewildering,
Covered with leaves the little children,
So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue
A beautiful creature,
That is gentle by nature?
Beneath the summer sky
From flower to flower let him fly;
'Tis all that he wishes to do.
The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own:
Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!



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1849
... whom ...
1807
... who ...
1827
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Variant 2:  
1815
In and out, he darts about;
His little heart is throbbing:
Can this be the Bird, to man so good,
Our consecrated Robin!
That, after ...




1807
... Robin! Robin!
His little heart is throbbing;
Can this ...


MS.
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Variant 3:  
1832
Did cover ...
1807
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Variant 4:  
1815
... Like thine own breast
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
As if he were bone of thy bone.


MS.
Like the hues of thy breast
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A brother he seems of thine own:


1807
... in the air together!
His beautiful bosom is drest,
In crimson as bright as thine own:


1832
The edition of 1836 resumes the text of 1815.
return


Variant 5:  
1836
If thou would'st be ...
1807
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Footnote A:   The title, in the editions 1807 to 1820, was The Redbreast and the Butterfly. In the editions 1827 to 1843 it was The Redbreast and Butterfly. The final title was given in 1845.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare Cowley:
'And Robin Redbreasts whom men praise,
For pious birds.'
Ed.
return


Footnote C:   See Paradise Lost, book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of gayest plume," and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy.—W. W. 1815.

The passage in book XI. of Paradise Lost includes lines 185-90.—Ed.
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To a Butterfly (2)

Composed April 20, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written at the same time and place. The Orchard, Grasmere Town-end, 1801.—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
I've watch'd you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!—not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.



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1807
... short ...
1836
The text of 1845 reverts to the reading of 1807.
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1815
Stop here whenever you are weary,
And rest as in a sanctuary!
1807
And feed ...
MS.
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Note:   Wordsworth's date, as given to Miss Fenwick, is incorrect. In her Journal, April 20, 1802, Dorothy Wordsworth writes:
"William wrote a conclusion to the poem of The Butterfly, 'I've watch'd you now a full half-hour.'"
This, and the structure of the two poems, makes it probable that the latter was originally meant to be a sort of conclusion to the former (p. 283); but they were always printed as separate poems.

Many of the "flowers" in the orchard at Dove Cottage were planted by Dorothy Wordsworth, and some of the "trees" by William. The "summer days" of childhood are referred to in the previous poem, To a Butterfly, written on the 14th of March 1802.—Ed.



Contents 1802
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Foresight

Composed April 28, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Also composed in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.— I. F.]

Included among the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
That is work of waste and ruin—
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them—here are many:
Look at it—the flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any:
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you.
Pull the primrose, sister Anne!
Pull as many as you can.
—Here are daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty daffodil
Make your bed, or make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them—
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, a barren kind,
Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured strawberry-flower.
Hither soon as spring is fled
You and Charles and I will walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within its leafy bower;
And for that promise spare the flower!



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1815
That is work which I am rueing—
1807
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Variant 2:  
1836
... and ...
1807
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Variant 3:  
1815
Violets, do what they will,
Wither'd on the ground must lie;
Daisies will be daisies still;
Daisies they must live and die:
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom,
Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!





1807
return


Variant 4:  
This last stanza was added in the edition of 1815.
return


Variant 5:  
1836
When the months of spring are fled
Hither let us bend our walk;

1815
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Note:   The full title of this poem, in the editions of 1807 to 1832, was Foresight, or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion, but it was originally known in the household as "Children gathering Flowers." The shortened title was adopted in 1836. The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal:
"Wednesday, 28th April (1802).—Copied the Prioress's Tale. William was in the orchard. I went to him; he worked away at his poem, though he was ill, and tired. I happened to say that when I was a child I would not have pulled a strawberry blossom; I left him, and wrote out the Manciple's Tale. At dinner time he came in with the poem of Children gathering Flowers, but it was not quite finished, and it kept him long from his dinner. It is now done. He is working at The Tinker."
At an earlier date in the same year,—Jan. 31st, 1802,—the following occurs:
"I found a strawberry blossom in a rock. The little slender flower had more courage than the green leaves, for they were but half expanded and half grown, but the blossom was spread full out. I uprooted it rashly, and I felt as if I had been committing an outrage; so I planted it again. It will have but a stormy life of it, but let it live if it can."
With this poem compare a parallel passage in Marvel's The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers:
'But oh, young beauty of the woods,
Whom nature courts with fruits and flowers,
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
Lest Flora, angry at thy crime
To kill her infants in their prime,
Should quickly make the example yours;
And, ere we see,
Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee.'
Ed.


Contents 1802
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To the Small CelandineA

Composed April 30, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. It is remarkable that this flower, coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beautiful, and in such profusion, should not have been noticed earlier in English verse. What adds much to the interest that attends it is its habit of shutting itself up and opening out according to the degree of light and temperature of the air.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy." In the original MS. this poem is called To the lesser Celandine, but in the proof "small" was substituted for "lesser."

In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal the following occurs, under date April 30, 1802:
"We came into the orchard directly after breakfast, and sat there. The lake was calm, the sky cloudy. William began to write the poem of The Celandine.... I walked backwards and forwards with William. He repeated his poem to me, then he got to work again, and would not give over."
Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story:
There's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star;
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little Flower!—I'll make a stir,
Like a sage astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an Elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself;
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
'Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless Prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood!
Travel with the multitude:
Never heed them; I aver
That they all are wanton wooers;
But the thrifty cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home;
Spring is coming, Thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming Spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane;—there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befal the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill-requited upon earth;
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart's command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!



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... great ...
1807
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1832
... it's ...
1807
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Variant 3:  
1836
Scorn'd and slighted ...
1807
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Variant 4:  
1836
Singing at my heart's command,
In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,

1807
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Footnote A:  Common Pilewort.—W. W. 1807.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:  The following stanza was inserted in the editions of 1836-1843:
'Drawn by what peculiar spell,
By what charm for sight or smell,
Do those wingèd dim-eyed creatures,
Labourers sent from waxen cells,
Settle on thy brilliant features,
In neglect of buds and bells
Opening daily at thy side,
By the season multiplied?'
In 1845 it was transferred to the following poem, where it will be found, with a change of text.—Ed.
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Contents 1802
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To the Same Flower

Composed May 1, 1802.—Published 1807

One of the "Poems of the Fancy."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Pleasures newly found are sweet
When they lie about our feet:
February last, my heart
First at sight of thee was glad;
All unheard of as thou art,
Thou must needs, I think, have had,
Celandine! and long ago,
Praise of which I nothing know.

I have not a doubt but he,
Whosoe'er the man might be,
Who the first with pointed rays
(Workman worthy to be sainted)
Set the sign-board in a blaze,
When the rising sun he painted,
Took the fancy from a glance
At thy glittering countenance.

Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of winter's vanishing,
And the children build their bowers,
Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould
All about with full-blown flowers,
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold!
With the proudest thou art there,
Mantling in the tiny square.

Often have I sighed to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure,
Sighed to think, I read a book
Only read, perhaps, by me;
Yet I long could overlook
Thy bright coronet and Thee,
And thy arch and wily ways,
And thy store of other praise.

Blithe of heart, from week to week
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;
While the patient primrose sits
Like a beggar in the cold,
Thou, a flower of wiser wits,
Slip'st into thy sheltering hold;
Liveliest of the vernal train
When ye all are out again.

Drawn by what peculiar spell,
By what charm of sight or smell,
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee,
Labouring for her waxen cells,
Fondly settle upon Thee
Prized above all buds and bells
Opening daily at thy side,
By the season multiplied?

Thou art not beyond the moon,
But a thing "beneath our shoon:"
Let the bold Discoverer thrid
In his bark the polar sea;
Rear who will a pyramid;
Praise it is enough for me,
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little Flower.



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... risen ...
1807
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Variant 2:  
1832
... shelter'd ...
1807
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Variant 3:  
1845
Bright as any of the train
1807
return


Variant 4:  
This stanza was added in 1845. (See note, p. 302.)]
return


Variant 5:  
1845
Let, as old Magellen did,
Others roam about the sea;
Build who will a pyramida;


1807
Let, with bold advent'rous skill,
Others thrid the polar sea;
Rear a pyramid who will;


1820
Let the bold Adventurer thrid
In his bark the polar sea;
Rear who will a pyramid;


1827
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Footnote A:   This may be an imperfect reminiscence of Comus, ll. 634-5.—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Sub-Footnote a:   Barron Field asked Wordsworth to restore these lines of 1807, and Wordsworth promised to do so, but never did it.—Ed.
return





Note:   The following is an extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal. Saturday, May 1.
"A heavenly morning. We went into the garden, and sowed the scarlet beans about the house. It was a clear sky. I sowed the flowers, William helped me. We then went and sat in the orchard till dinner time. It was very hot. William wrote The Celandine (second part). We planned a shed, for the sun was too much for us."
Ed.


Contents 1802
Main Contents




Stanzas written in my Pocket Copy of Thomson's Castle of Indolence

Begun 9th May, finished 11th May, 1802.—Published 1815

The Poem

[Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, Coleridge living with us much at this time: his son Hartley has said, that his father's character and habits are here preserved in a livelier way than in anything that has been written about him. I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Within our happy Castle there dwelt One
Whom without blame I may not overlook;
For never sun on living creature shone
Who more devout enjoyment with us took:
Here on his hours he hung as on a book,
On his own time here would he float away,
As doth a fly upon a summer brook;
But go to-morrow, or belike to-day,
Seek for him,—he is fled; and whither none can say.

Thus often would he leave our peaceful home,
And find elsewhere his business or delight;
Out of our Valley's limits did he roam:
Full many a time, upon a stormy night,
His voice came to us from the neighbouring height:
Oft could we see him driving full in view
At midday when the sun was shining bright;
What ill was on him, what he had to do,
A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew.

Ah! piteous sight it was to see this Man
When he came back to us, a withered flower,—
Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan.
Down would he sit; and without strength or power
Look at the common grass from hour to hour:
And oftentimes, how long I fear to say,
Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower,
Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay;
And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away.

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was
Whenever from our Valley he withdrew;
For happier soul no living creature has
Than he had, being here the long day through.
Some thought he was a lover, and did woo:
Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong;
But verse was what he had been wedded to;
And his own mind did like a tempest strong
Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along.

With him there often walked in friendly guise,
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree,
A noticeable Man with large grey eyes,
And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be;
Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear,
Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy;
Profound his forehead was, though not severe;
Yet some did think that he had little business here:

Sweet heaven forefend! his was a lawful right;
Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy;
His limbs would toss about him with delight
Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy.
Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy
To banish listlessness and irksome care;
He would have taught you how you might employ
Yourself; and many did to him repair,—
And certes not in vain; he had inventions rare.

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried:
Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay,
Made, to his ear attentively applied,
A pipe on which the wind would deftly play;
Glasses he had, that little things display,
The beetle panoplied in gems and gold,
A mailed angel on a battle-day;
The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold,
And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.

He would entice that other Man to hear
His music, and to view his imagery:
And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear:
No livelier love in such a place could be:
There did they dwell-from earthly labour free,
As happy spirits as were ever seen;
If but a bird, to keep them company,
Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,
As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen.



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... did ...
1815
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Variant 2:  
1827
The beetle with his radiance manifold,
1815
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Variant 3:  
1827
And cups of flowers, and herbage green and gold;
1815
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Variant 4:  
1836
And, sooth, these two did love each other dear,
As far as love in such a place could be;

1815
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Footnote A:   Compare
'And oft he traced the uplands to survey,
When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn,
The crimson cloud.'
Beattie's Minstrel, book I, st. 20.
'And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb
When all in mist the world below was lost.'
Book I. st. 21. '
And of each gentle, and each dreadful scene
In darkness, and in storm, he found delight.'
Book I. st. 22. Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare the stanza in A Poet's Epitaph (p. 77), beginning
'He is retired as noontide dew.'
Ed.
return


Footnote C:  Many years ago Canon Ainger pointed out to me a parallel between Beattie's description of The Minstrel and Wordsworth's account of himself in this poem. It is somewhat curious that Dorothy Wordsworth, writing to Miss Pollard from Forncett in 1793, quotes the line from The Minstrel, book I. stanza 22,
"In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,"
and adds
"That verse of Beattie's Minstrel always reminds me of him, and indeed the whole character of Edwin resembles much what William was when I first knew him after leaving Halifax."
Mr. T. Hutchinson called the attention of Professor Dowden to the same resemblance between the two pictures. With lines 35, 36, compare in Shelley's Adonais, stanza xxxi.:
'And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.'
Ed.
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Note:   There can now be no doubt that, in the first four of these Stanzas, Wordsworth refers to himself; and that, in the last four, he refers to Coleridge. For a time it was uncertain whether in the earlier stanzas he had Coleridge, or himself, in view; and whether, in the later ones, some one else was, or was not, described. De Quincey, quoting (as he often did) in random fashion, mixes up extracts from each set of the stanzas, and applies them both to Coleridge; and Dorothy Wordsworth, in her Journal, gives apparent (though only apparent) sanction to a reverse order of allusion, by writing of "the stanzas about C. and himself" (her brother). The following are her references to the poem in that Journal:
"9th May (1802).-After tea he (W.) wrote two stanzas in the manner of Thomson's Castle of Indolence, and was tired out.

"10th May.—William still at work, though it is past ten o'clock ... William did not sleep till three o'clock."

"11th May.—William finished the stanzas about C. and himself. He did not go out to-day. ... He completely finished his poem. He went to bed at twelve o'clock."
From these extracts two things are evident,
  1. who the persons are described in the stanzas, and
  2. the immense labour bestowed upon the poem.
In the Memoirs of Wordsworth, by the late Bishop of Lincoln, there is a passage (vol. ii. chap. li. p. 309) amongst the "Personal Reminiscences, 1836," in which the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge virtually decides the question of the identity of the two persons referred to, in his record of a conversation with the poet. It is as follows:
"October 10th.—I have passed a great many hours to-day with Wordsworth in his home. I stumbled on him with proof sheets before him. He read me nearly all the sweet stanzas written in his copy of the Castle of Indolence, describing himself and my uncle; and he and Mrs. W. both assured me the description of the latter at that time was perfectly accurate; and he was almost as a great boy in feelings, and had all the tricks and fancies there described. Mrs. W. seemed to look back on him, and those times, with the fondest affection."
I think "the neighbouring height" referred to is the height of White Moss Common, behind the Fir-Grove, where Wordsworth was often heard murmuring out his verses," booing" as the country folks said: and the
'driving full in view
At midday when the sun was shining bright,'
aptly describes his habits as recorded in his sister's Journal, and elsewhere. The "withered flower," the "creature pale and wan," are significant of those terrible reactions of spirit, which followed his joyous hours of insight and inspiration. Stanzas IV. to VII. of Resolution and Independence (p. 314), in which Wordsworth undoubtedly described himself, may be compared with stanza III. of this poem. The lines
'Down would he sit; and without strength or power
Look at the common grass from hour to hour,'
are aptly illustrated by such passages in his sister's Journal, as the following, of 29th April 1802:
"We went to John's Grove, sate a while at first; afterwards William lay, and I lay in the trench, under the fence—he with his eyes closed, and listening to the waterfalls and the birds. There was no one waterfall above another—it was a kind of water in the air—the voice of the air. We were unseen by one another."
Again, April 23rd,
"Coleridge and I pushed on before. We left William sitting on the stones, feasting with silence."
And this recalls the first verse of Expostulation and Reply, written at Alfoxden in 1798;
Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?'
The retreat where "apple-trees in blossom made a bower," and where he so often "slept himself away," was evidently the same as that described in the poem The Green Linnet:
'Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow white blossoms on my head.'
On the other hand, the "low-hung lip" and "profound" forehead of the other, the "noticeable Man with large grey eyes," mark him out as S. T. C.; "the rapt One, of the god-like forehead," described in the Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg. The description "Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy," is verified by what the poet and his wife said to Mr. Justice Coleridge in 1836. In addition, Mr. Hutchinson of Kimbolton tells me he "often heard his father say that Coleridge was uproarious in his mirth."

Matthew Arnold wrote me an interesting letter some years ago about these stanzas, from which I make the following extract:
"When one looks uneasily at a poem it is easy to fidget oneself further, and neither the Wordsworth nor the Coleridge of our common notions seem to be exactly hit off in the Stanzas; still, I believe that the first described is Wordsworth and that the second described is Coleridge. I have myself heard Wordsworth speak of his prolonged exhausting wanderings among the hills. Then Miss Fenwick's notes show that Coleridge is certainly one of the two personages of the poem, and there are points in the description of the second man which suit him very well. The profound forehead is a touch akin to the god-like forehead in the mention of Coleridge in a later poem.

"I have a sort of recollection of having heard something about the inventions rare, and Coleridge is certain to have dabbled, at one time or other, in natural philosophy."
In 1796 Coleridge wrote to his friend Cottle from Nether Stowey:
" ... I should not think of devoting less than 20 years to an Epic Poem: ten to collect materials and warm my mind with universal science. I would be a tolerable Mathematician, I would thoroughly know Mechanics, Hydrostatics, Optics, and Astronomy, Botany, Metallurgy, Fossilism, Chemistry, Geology, Anatomy, Medicine—then the mind of man—then the minds of men—in all Travels, Voyages, and Histories. So I would spend ten years—the next five to the composition of the poem—and the last five to the correction of it. So would I write, haply not unhearing of the divine and rightly whispering Voice," etc.
Mr. T. Hutchinson (Dublin) writes in The Athenæum, Dec. 15, 1894:
"I take it for granted these lines were written, not only on the fly-leaf of Wordsworth's copy of the Castle of Indolence, but also by way of Supplement to that poem; i. e. as an addendum to the descriptive list of the denizens of the Castle given in stanzas LVII-LXIX of Canto I.; that, in short, they are meant to be read as though they were an after-thought of James Thomson's. Their author, therefore, has rightly imparted to them the curiously blended flavour of romantic melancholy and slippered mirth, of dreamlike vagueness and smiling hyperbole, which forms the distinctive mark of Thomson's poem; and thus the Poet and the Philosopher-Friend of Wordsworth's stanzas, like Thomson's companion sketches of the splenetic Solitary, the bard more fat than bard beseems, and the little, round, fat, oily Man of God, are neither more nor less than gentle caricatures."
It has been suggested by Coleridge's grandson that Wordsworth was describing S. T. C. in all the stanzas of this poem; that he drew two separate pictures of him; in the first four stanzas a realistic "character portrait," and in the last four a "companion picture, figuring the outward semblance of Coleridge, but embodying characteristics drawn from a third person"; so that we have a "fancy sketch" mixed up with a real one. I cannot agree with this. The evidence against it is
  1. Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal;
  2. the poet's and his wife's remarks to Mr. Justice Coleridge;
  3. the fact that Wordsworth was not in the habit of "passing from realism into artistic composition," except where he distinctly indicated it, as in the case of the Hawkshead Schoolmaster, in the "Matthew" poems. Such composite or conglomerate work was quite foreign to Wordsworth's genius.
Ed.


Contents 1802
Main Contents




Resolution and Independence

Begun May 3, finished July 4, 1802.—Published 1807

The Poem

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This old man I met a few hundred yards from my cottage; and the account of him is taken from his own mouth. I was in the state of feeling described in the beginning of the poem, while crossing over Barton Fell from Mr. Clarkson's, at the foot of Ullswater, towards Askham. The image of the hare I then observed on the ridge of the Fell.—I. F.]

This poem was known in the Wordsworth household as "The Leech-Gatherer," although it never received that name in print. An entry in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal of Friday, 3rd October 1800, may preface what she wrote in 1802 about the composition of the poem.
"When William and I returned from accompanying Jones, we met an old man almost double. He had on a coat thrown over his shoulders above his waistcoat and coat. Under this he carried a bundle, and had an apron on, and a night-cap. His face was interesting. He had dark eyes, and a long nose. John, who afterwards met him at Wytheburn, took him for a Jew. He was of Scotch parents, but had been born in the army. He had had a wife, 'and a good woman, and it pleased God to bless him with ten children.' All these were dead but one, of whom he had not heard for many years, a sailor. His trade was to gather leeches; but now leeches were scarce, and he had not strength for it. He lived by begging, and was making his way to Carlisle where he would buy a few books to sell. He said leeches were very scarce, partly owing to this dry season; but many years they had been scarce. He supposed it was owing to their being much sought after; that they did not breed fast; and were of slow growth. Leeches were formerly 2s. 6d. the 100; now they were 30s. He had been hurt in driving a cart, his leg broken, his body driven over, his skull fractured. He felt no pain till he recovered from his first insensibility. It was late in the evening, when the light was just going away."
It is most likely that this walk of William and Dorothy Wordsworth "accompanying Jones," was on the day of Jones's departure from Dove Cottage, viz. 26th September.

The Journal continues:
"Tuesday, 4th May, 1802.—Though William went to bed nervous and jaded in the extreme, he rose refreshed. I wrote out The Leech-Gatherer for him, which he had begun the night before, and of which he wrote several stanzas in bed this morning...."

(They started to walk up the Raise to Wytheburn.)

"It was very hot; we rested several times by the way, read, and repeated The Leech-Gatherer."

"Friday, 7th May.—William had slept uncommonly well, so, feeling himself strong, he fell to work at The Leech-Gatherer; he wrote hard at it till dinner time, then he gave over, tired to death—he had finished the poem."

"Sunday morning, 9th May.—William worked at The Leech-Gatherer almost incessantly from morning till tea-time. I copied The Leech-Gatherer and other poems for Coleridge. I was oppressed and sick at heart, for he wearied himself to death."

"Sunday, 4th July.—... William finished The Leech-Gatherer to-day."

"Monday, 5th July.—I copied out The Leech-Gatherer for Coleridge, and for us."
From these extracts it is clear that Dorothy Wordsworth considered the poem as "finished" on the 7th of May, and on the 9th she sent a copy to Coleridge; but that it was not till the 4th of July that it was really finished, and then a second copy was forwarded to Coleridge. It is impossible to say from which of the two MSS. sent to him Coleridge transcribed the copy which he forwarded to Sir George Beaumont. From that copy of a copy (which is now amongst the Beaumont MSS. at Coleorton) the various readings given, on Coleridge's authority, in the notes to the poem, were obtained some years ago.

The Fenwick note to the poem illustrates Wordsworth's habit of blending in one description details which were originally separate, both as to time and place. The scenery and the incidents of the poem are alike composite. As he tells us that he met the leech-gatherer a few hundred yards from Dove Cottage, the "lonely place" with its "pool, bare to the eye of heaven," at once suggests White Moss Common and its small tarn; but he adds that, in the opening stanzas of the poem, he is describing a state of feeling he was in, when crossing the fells at the foot of Ullswater to Askam, and that the image of the hare "running races in her mirth," with the glittering mist accompanying her, was observed by him, not on White Moss Common, but in one of the ridges of Moor Divock. To H. C. Robinson he said of the "Leech-Gatherer" (Sept. 10, 1816), that "he gave to his poetic character powers of mind which his original did not possess." (Robinson's Diary, etc., vol. ii. p. 24.)

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.






The Poem


stanza text variant footnote line number
I There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.




5
II All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.





1


10



III I was a Traveller then upon the moor;
I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.
15




20
IV But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low;
To me that morning did it happen so;
And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.



25


V I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me—
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.
2


3


30




35
VI My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?



4






A




40

VII I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
By our own spirits are we deified:
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

5

6


7


45



VIII Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
I saw a Man before me unawares:
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
[12]
8

9

10
11

12
50




55
IX As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,
By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;


13


14



60


X Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep—in his extreme old age:
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life's pilgrimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.



15


16

65




70
XI Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood,
That heareth not the loud winds when they call;
And moveth all together, if it move at all.
17


18


19
20




75

XII At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now a stranger's privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."




21



80



XIII A gentle answer did the old Man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
"What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you."
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.



22
23

24






B
85




90
XIV His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest—
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

25
26
27





95


XV He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather leeches, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.
28


29



100




105
XVI The old Man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole body of the Man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

30




31




110

XVII My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
—Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"

32


33

34


115



XVIII He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the pools where they abide.
"Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."



35


36
120




125
XIX While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The old Man's shape, and speech—all troubled me:
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.



130
XX And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"



Note
Contents 1802
Main Contents
37

38




135




140






Variant 1:  
1827
... which, ...
1807
And in MS. letter from Coleridge to Sir George Beaumont, 1802a.
return


Variant 2:  
1820
... singing ...
1807
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 3:  
1807
... happy ...
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 4:  
1807
And they who lived in genial faith found nought
that grew more willingly than genial good;

MS. 1802.
return


Variant 5:  
1815
... who perished in his pride;
MS. 1802.
... that perished in its pride;
1807
return


Variant 6:  
1820
Behind his plough, upon the mountain-side:
1807
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 7:  
1836
... comes ...
1807
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 8:  
1807
... was ...
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 9:  
1807
... that ...
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 10:  
1820
When up and down my fancy thus was driven,
And I with these untoward thoughts had striven,

1807
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 11:  
1807
I spied ...
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 12:  
date
My course I stopped as soon as I espied
The Old Man in that naked wilderness:
Close by a Pond, upon the further side,i
He stood alone: a minute's space I guess
I watch'd him, he continuing motionless:
To the Pool's further margin then I drew;
He being all the while before me full in view.ii






1807
This stanza, which appeared in the editions of 1807 and 1815, was, on Coleridge's advice, omitted from subsequent ones.
return


Variant 13:  
1807
... that ...
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 14:  
1820
... which ...
1807
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 15:  
1820
... in their pilgrimage
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 16:  
1807
... his age ...
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 17:  
1836
Himself he propp'd, both body, limbs, and face,
MS. 1802.
... his body, ...
1807
return


Variant 18:  
1820
Beside the little pond or moorish flood
1807
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 19:  
date
... moves ...
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 20:  
He wore a Cloak the same as women wear
As one whose blood did needful comfort lack;
His face look'd pale as if it had grown fair;
And, furthermore he had upon his back,
Beneath his cloak, a round and bulky Pack;
A load of wool or raiment as might seem.
That on his shoulders lay as if it clave to him.






This stanza appeared only in MS. 1802.
return


Variant 21:  
1820
And now such freedom as I could I took;
1807
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 22:  
1820
"What kind of work is that which you pursue?
1807
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 23:  
1807
... for such as ...
MS.
return


Variant 24:  
1836
He answer'd me with pleasure and surprize;
And there was, while he spake, a fire about his eyes.

1807 and MS. 1802
He answered, while a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.

1820
return


Variant 25:  
1820
Yet ...
1807
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 26:  
1807
... pompous ....
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 27:  
1807
...words ...
MS.
...beyond ...
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 28:  
1827
He told me that he to the pond had come
MS. 1802.
... this pond ...
1807
return


Variant 29:  
1807
This was his calling, better far than some,
Though he had ...

MS. 1802.
return


Variant 30:  
1807
But soon ...
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 31:  
1827
... and strong admonishment.
1807
... by strong admonishment.
1820
return


Variant 32:  
1815
The ...
1807
And MS. 1802.
return


Variant 33:  
1820
And now, not knowing what the Old Man had said,
1807 and MS. 1802
But now, perplex'd by what the Old Man had said,
1815
return


Variant 34:  
1807
... live? what is it that you do?"
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 35:  
1827
And said, that wheresoe'er they might be spied
He gather'd Leeches, stirring at his feet
The waters in the Ponds ...


MS. 1802
And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the Ponds ...
1807
return


Variant 36:  
1807
Once he could meet with them on every side;
But fewer they became from day to day,
And so his means of life before him died away.


MS. 1802.
return


Variant 37:  
1807
And now ...
MS. 1802.
return


Variant 38:  
1807
Which he delivered with demeanour kind,
Yet stately ...

MS. 1802.
return





Sub-Variant i:  
... hither side,
MS. 1802.
return


Sub-Variant ii:  
He all the while before me being full in view.
MS. 1802.
return





Footnote A:   Some have thought that Wordsworth had S.T.C. in his mind, in writing this stanza. I cannot agree with this. The value and interest of the poem would be lessened by our imagining that Wordsworth's heart never failed him; and that, when he appears to moralise at his own expense, he was doing so at Coleridge's. Besides, the date of this poem, taken in connection with entries in the Grasmere Journal of Dorothy Wordsworth, makes it all but certain that Coleridge was not referred to.—Ed.
return to footnote mark


Footnote B:   Compare in The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband, p. 417, ll. 66-69:
'Some inward trouble suddenly
Broke from the Matron's strong black eye—
A remnant of uneasy light,
A flash of something over-bright!'
Ed.
return





Sub-Footnote a:   Additional variants obtained from this source are inserted as "MS. 1802."—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   The late Bishop of Lincoln, in the Memoirs of his uncle (vol. i. pp. 172, 173), quotes from a letter, written by Wordsworth "to some friends, which has much interest as bearing on this poemC. The following are extracts from it:
"It is not a matter of indifference whether you are pleased with his figure and employment, it may be comparatively whether you are pleased with this Poem; but it is of the utmost importance that you should have had pleasure in contemplating the fortitude, independence, persevering spirit, and the general moral dignity of this old man's character." Again, "I will explain to you, in prose, my feelings in writing that poem.... I describe myself as having been exalted to the highest pitch of delight by the joyousness and beauty of nature; and then as depressed, even in the midst of those beautiful objects, to the lowest dejection and despair. A young poet in the midst of the happiness of nature is described as overwhelmed by the thoughts of the miserable reverses which have befallen the happiest of all men, viz. poets. I think of this till I am so deeply impressed with it, that I consider the manner in which I was rescued from my dejection and despair almost as an interposition of Providence. A person reading the poem with feelings like mine will have been awed and controlled, expecting something spiritual or supernatural. What is brought forward? A lonely place, 'a pond, by which an old man was, far from all house or home:' not stood, nor sat, but was—the figure presented in the most naked simplicity possible. This feeling of spirituality or supernaturalness is again referred to as being strong in my mind in this passage. How came he here? thought I, or what can he be doing? I then describe him, whether ill or well is not for me to judge with perfect confidence; but this I can confidently affirm, that though I believe God has given me a strong imagination, I cannot conceive a figure more impressive than that of an old man like this, the survivor of a wife and ten children, travelling alone among the mountains and all lonely places, carrying with him his own fortitude and the necessities which an unjust state of society has laid upon him. You speak of his speech as tedious. Every thing is tedious when one does not read with the feelings of the author. The Thorn is tedious to hundreds; and so is The Idiot Boy to hundreds. It is in the character of the old man to tell his story, which an impatient reader must feel tedious. But, good heavens! such a figure, in such a place; a pious, self-respecting, miserably infirm and pleased old man telling such a tale!"
Ed.





Footnote C:   It is unfortunate that in this, as in many other similar occasions in these delightful volumes by the poet's nephew, the reticence as to names—warrantable perhaps in 1851, so soon after the poet's death—has now deprived the world of every means of knowing to whom many of Wordsworth's letters were addressed. Professor Dowden asks about it—and very naturally:
"Was it the letter to Mary and Sara" (Hutchinson) "about The Leech-Gatherer, mentioned in Dorothy's Journal of 14th June 1802?"
Ed.
return





Contents 1802
Main Contents




"I grieved for Buonaparté"

Composed May 21, 1802.—Published 1807A

The Poem

[In the cottage of Town-end, one afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me the sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with them, but I was particularly struck on that occasion with the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that runs through most of them—in character so totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shakespeare's fine sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote, except an irregular one at school. Of these three the only one I distinctly remember is 'I grieved for Buonaparté, etc.'; one of the others was never written down; the third, which was I believe preserved, I cannot particularise.—I. F.]

One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty," afterwards called "Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty." From the edition of 1815 onwards, it bore the title 1801.—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
I grieved for Buonaparté, with a vain
And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood
Of that Man's mind—what can it be? what food
Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain?
'Tis not in battles that from youth we train
The Governor who must be wise and good,
And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
Of the mind's business: these are the degrees
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.



Note
Contents 1802
Main Contents

1




5




10









Variant 1:  
1837
        grief! the vital blood
Of that man's mind, what can it be? What food
Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain?


1802
       ... grief! for, who aspires
To genuine greatness but from just desires,
And knowledge such as He could never gain?


1815
return


Footnote A:  It had twice seen the light previously in The Morning Post, first on September 16, 1802, unsigned, and again on January 29, 1803, when it was signed W. L. D.—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:   Wordsworth's date 1801, in the Fenwick note, should have been 1802. His sister writes, in her Journal of 1802:
"May 21.—W. wrote two sonnets on Buonaparte, after I had read Milton's sonnets to him."
The "irregular" sonnet, written "at school," to which Wordsworth refers, is probably the one published in the European Magazine. in 1787, vol. xi. p. 202, and signed Axiologus.—Ed.


Contents 1802
Main Contents




A Farewell

Composed May 29, 1802.—Published 1815

The Poem

[Composed just before my Sister and I went to fetch Mrs. Wordsworth from Gallow-hill, near Scarborough.—I. F.]

This was one of the "Poems founded on the Affections." It was published in 1815 and in 1820 without a title, but with the sub-title 'Composed in the Year 1802'. In 1827 and 1832 it was called 'A Farewell', to which the sub-title was added. The sub-title was omitted in 1836, and afterwards.—Ed.





The Poem


text variant footnote line number
Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair
Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;
Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,
Farewell!—we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,
Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,
And there will safely ride when we are gone;
The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door
Will prosper, though untended and alone:
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:
These narrow bounds contain our private store
Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon;
Here are they in our sight—we have no more.

Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
For two months now in vain we shall be sought;
We leave you here in solitude to dwell
With these our latest gifts of tender thought;
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,
And placed together near our rocky Well.

We go for One to whom ye will be dear;
And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, Building without peer!
—A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,
Will come to you; to you herself will wed;
And love the blessed life that we lead here.

Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own.
Making all kindness registered and known;
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,
That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show
To them who look not daily on thy face;
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,
And say'st, when we forsake thee, "Let them go!"
Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,
And travel with the year at a soft pace.

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,
And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best;
Joy will be flown in its mortality;
Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast
Glittered at evening like a starry sky;
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sang one song that will not die.

O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,
And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;
Two burning months let summer overleap,
And, coming back with Her who will be ours,
Into thy bosom we again shall creep.



Note
Contents 1802
Main Contents










1
2





















3
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6





































































A






5





10




15





20





25




30





35




40





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60









Variant 1:  
1836
And safely she will ride ...
1815
... will she ...
1832
return


Variant 2:  
1836
... that decorate our door
1815
return


Variant 3:  
1820
She'll come ...
1815
return


Variant 4:  
1827
... which ...
1815
return


Variant 5:  
1827
... in ...
1815
return


Variant 6:  
1832
... sung ...
1815
return





Footnote A:  See The Sparrow's Nest, p. 236.—Ed.
return to footnote mark





Note:  
"May 29.—William finished his poem on going for Mary. I wrote it out. A sweet day. We nailed up the honeysuckle and hoed the scarlet beans."
She added on the 31st,
"I wrote out the poem on our departure, which he seemed to have finished;"
and on June 13th,
"William has been altering the poem to Mary this morning."
The "little Nook of mountain-ground" is in much the same condition now, as it was in 1802. The "flowering shrubs" and the "rocky well" still exist, and "the steep rock's breast" is "thronged with primroses" in spring. The "bower" is gone; but, where it used to be, a seat is now erected.

The Dove Cottage orchard is excellently characterised in Mr. Stopford Brooke's pamphlet describing it (1890). See also The Green Linnet, p. 367, with the note appended to it, and Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, passim